


My Life, Which Has Not Flowered

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Series: Actual Tennis Samurai [1]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: First Time, M/M, Samurai Boyfriends, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beginning of high school is supposed to be the beginning of a new reign, as far as Yukimura Seiichi and Sanada Genichirou are concerned. Before that can even begin, however, Sanada's life is torn apart in one fell swoop, taking him away from the school they were going to rule together, the tennis they were going to play together, and Yukimura entirely. Fixing that is easier said than done, but no one has ever said either of them are short on determination; two parts of a whole always find a way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Yukimura made a promise to himself to never see the inside of a hospital again. 

 

Illogical perhaps, but considering the events of the past year, he doubts anyone would blame him. Even with that in mind, he doubts he has ever dashed into a hospital as fast as he has now. 

 

The worst thing, though, is hearing it through the grapevine. 

 

Last night, Sanada doesn't return his text. Yukimura shrugs it off, curls up, sleeps. In the morning, it's on the news--the government official and his wife and his father and his son, all in a car crash, none of them surviving and with his son still in the hospital--

 

(Un)fortunately, the nurses still remember him, and try to ask him how he's been, how he's doing, though he has little time for that. Begging his way into Sanada's room doesn't take much effort (they love him, _that_ much is fortunate), and Yukimura doesn't bother knocking before he's in the room, bag dropped by the door. 

 

He hates hospitals. He _hates_ that they're here in the hospital, that _Sanada_ is in the bed this time-- 

 

Yukimura sits down--on the side of the bed, not in the chair next to it. "I tried to call," is all he can manage to say. 

 

Sanada tries to swallow. It doesn’t work. Nothing has worked, especially not prayer. He raises his eyes to meet Yukimura’s, but somehow even his gaze feels heavy, dragged back down to the floor after a bare second.

 

There’s little he can say. He could say that his phone flew out of his hand when he tried to call for help, before the police arrived, and he’d heard it smash under a passing car’s tires. 

 

Except he can’t seem to make his voice work any more than he can his eyes. 

 

After a moment so long he hears the clock tick hundreds of seconds away, his voice starts working again, more or less without his permission. “You’re here.”

 

It sounds like someone else’s voice. Maybe it’s the voice of the person who has been answering questions from doctors and paramedics and policemen and a couple reporters who’d muscled their way into his hospital room. At least with Yukimura, he doesn’t feel the overwhelming urge to grab him and throw him through the wall. He’s pretty sure it’s less the fact that it’s wrong stopping him, and more the fact that he doesn’t want to see that much blood ever again, especially not on the cold white hospital tiles.

 

"Of course I am." That's a little easier to say, no matter how his voice still catches in his throat. Somehow, it's a lot more difficult dealing with _this_ than it ever was dealing with the possibility of his own death. His own problems are one thing--Sanada's another, the actual _finality_ of death even worse, especially with Sanada's _parents._

 

A slow exhale, and Yukimura gives up, grabs for one of Sanada's hands--carefully avoiding the IV--to squeeze tightly. "I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier." He squeezes tighter still. "They said you're all right." _At least there's that._

 

“Not hurt.” They’d called it miraculous. He aches all over, and there’s shattered glass in every part of his exposed skin. 

 

The warm hand on his is an anchor, pulling his eyes up with the force of gravity Yukimura always exerts on him. It’s enough to let him take what he’s pretty sure is his first breath since the truck had run them off the road. 

 

“He was talking about next month.” His voice still doesn’t sound like his own, but it sounds like it’s coming from a live human now, which he supposes is an improvement. “He was going to start taking karate again.” Why is he saying things that don’t matter?

 

"Genichirou…" Yukimura gives up again, gives into the urge that he's sure Sanada had felt when their roles were reversed but couldn't act on (wasn't allowed to, not for the first few weeks, and it was _agony_ ) and simply curls his legs underneath himself, slides fully onto the bed, and stuffs his face down into the other boy's shoulder as he clings to Sanada's hand. "I'm sorry." _Really sorry. I wish i could fix it, I hate it when I can't fix things._

 

Feeling comes back, and Sanada wishes it hadn’t. His throat _hurts_ now instead of feeling numb, and his eyes hurt despite the fact that he’s pretty sure he hasn’t cried. Yukimura helps him feel like a human again, and Sanada kind of wants to go back. 

 

But Yukimura is _here_ , and that could be worse. Maybe he’ll live through this after all. No, of course he will. There’s no reason to be melodramatic. 

 

Slowly, he moves voluntarily to wrap an arm around Yukimura’s back, pulling him closer than is comfortable with how his bones ache. “Just stay.”

 

_Because I’ll be gone soon, and I need to hold on to this._

 

Yukimura doesn't bother nodding. It's understood that _of course I'm going to stay_ , and so he all but streamlines himself against Sanada, to the point that their bodies are plastered together. "… Do you have to be here much longer? If you're fine, then…" He lifts his head, frowning. "Maybe you can leave with me. Maybe you should just stay with my family for awhile." Assuming they'd allow that--or does Sanada have relatives he doesn't know about? 

 

_God, I wish I could._

 

“My brother’s on his way. They said I can only leave with family.” 

 

No matter that he knows Yukimura, cares about Yukimura, loves Yukimura a dozen times more than anyone he’s related to that’s still alive. “It’ll be hours. You don’t have to stay the whole time.”

 

"I'm staying." Yukimura sort of wedges a leg up against Sanada's, throws an arm over his chest, and is pretty sure the only way he could get closer is if he started oozing into Sanada's pores. "I've never met your brother," he murmurs, eyes lidding. "What's he like? Does he live in the same area?"

 

“Up in Ibaraki.” _Away from you, away from all our plans, away from the school we were going to rule together._ “It’s about five hours by six trains.”

 

He doesn’t say much about his brother. It doesn’t really matter what he’s like when he’s five hours by six trains from Yukimura Seiichi.

 

Yukimura is pretty sure that's the most unacceptable thing he's heard since 'you'll never play tennis again.'

 

"… No. I don't want that." He sounds like a petulant child for sure. "Your brother should just… there has to be some kind of paperwork he can sign so you can stay here. I can talk to my parents. Or if not then, even if it's someone else on the team…"

 

Usually, Sanada would refuse any help; it’s family, it’s a time of need, and even if Hiroto hasn’t spoken to the rest of his family in three years, they’re still family. 

 

Just now, he’s having a hard time finding the strength to not want help. 

 

“I…”

 

It’s still hard to ask, or even agree, so Sanada just nods dumbly. “He won’t want me to come. He might agree.”

 

"I'll take care of it," Yukimura says, firmly and resolutely, chilled by the fact that someone might not _want_ Sanada around, let alone the fact that he would be hours and hours away. His parents wouldn't even let him on the damned train to go and _see him_. Yukimura's hold tightens. "I'm not letting you go." 

 

Sanada buries his head in the soft, wavy fall of Yukimura’s hair, unfamiliar from this close. He’s wanted to have it brushing his face so many times, and it had always seemed so _certain_ that they would get there after Nationals, that after Nationals everything would make more sense, that after Nationals he’d feel Yukimura’s hair on his face and lips on his lips and chest against his chest. 

 

But they hadn’t won Nationals, and celebrations had had to wait. 

 

And things had never had a chance to get better.

 

And now, it doesn’t feel like anything ever will. “I don’t want to leave.” _You. I don’t want to leave you._

 

"Then you won't," Yukimura lowly insists, and he nudges his face into Sanada's shoulder, then up into his hair. "I'm serious. I'll hide you underneath my bed." The idea sounds childish at best, but if it came down to it… well, Yukimura isn't sure he wouldn't _try_. He huffs out a shaky breath and noses against Sanada's cheek, irritated. "I won't have a tennis team without you." 

 

“Don’t.” At this point Sanada isn’t sure what hurts more, not being able to play tennis like they’d planned or the thought of Yukimura not playing. (He still can’t think about his parents.)

 

“I played without you, when I had to. You’ll do the same for me.”

 

"That wasn't the same and you know it." Yukimura thinks about biting him. It doesn't sound particularly productive at the moment, not when Sanada is already bruised and banged up. "And the thought of you playing for some other school doesn't sound good either, so the only solution is for you to stay here. Obviously." 

 

Sanada wants it to sound possible. He tries to believe there are things like hope. 

 

Slowly, he extends his hand, squeezing Yukimura’s. His father had been going to start karate again next month. His mother was thinking about a new client at work that had been worrying her. They’d been so focused, so driven….he can’t give them any less than that. “We don’t give up. No matter what.”

 

Yukimura thinks, stupidly, about how he hadn't spoken to Sanada for nearly two weeks after their loss in the Nationals. Now, he wants to kick himself, when he was fairly certain he had been in the right before. _Two weeks that I could have been around him again, and now there's a chance he's leaving--_

 

Nope. He's just going to hide him underneath his bed. _Definitely_. 

 

"You're the one that sounds like he's giving up," Yukimura mutters, giving Sanada's hand a firm squeeze in return before without an ounce of concern, he leans his head up to press a kiss to Sanada's lips. "If I hide you underneath my bed, you can't be too gloomy about it."

 

It’s still a surprise that sometimes, Yukimura’s lips are against his. A good surprise, but he always has to mentally re-calibrate to remember that yes, kissing Yukimura isn’t just a thing he fantasizes about, but a thing that sometimes happens. “Trying to make the best of a situation isn’t giving up,” he says quietly. “Your parents would be in trouble.”

 

"Well, we're going to _try_ and do it in a way that no one gets in trouble," Yukimura reminds Sanada as he peers up at him. "But 'making the best' of something isn't beating it. I'd much rather conquer a situation, especially one like this."

 

“It’s not a sickness,” Sanada says, a little harshly. “You can’t conquer it. They’re _dead_.”

 

"… I'm talking about what I _can_ fix," Yukimura stiffly retorts, though his tone is sobered. "And that's keeping you _here_. That's all I can do."

 

Sanada closes his eyes, leaning down into Yukimura. “Don’t let them say anything,” he says quietly. The idea of it, of walking onto the tennis court and having everyone _looking_ at him, coming up to offer condolences, feeding him empty platitudes--he can’t think of anything worse. “If I get to stay.”

 

"I'll make them run until they throw up if they do," Yukimura promises, lifting his hands to wrap them both up into Sanada's hair, pulling his face back down into the crook of his neck. 

 

He’s not crying. He’s _not_ , because that’s the sort of thing a child does, not a grown man of not-quite-15. 

 

He thinks about asking how Yukimura handled it, how he made it through every day of thinking he was going to die, but that’s not the same. He knows. He knows Yukimura fought, was determined. 

 

If there was anything he could fight, Sanada might feel like he could win.

 

Yukimura refuses to accept defeat.

 

It's second nature to him to be that way. It's why he doesn't hesitate, the moment he finally untangles himself from Sanada, to fish out his phone and excuse him long enough to speak to his parents. 

 

Just because they say _no, let him be with his actual family_ doesn't mean he's going to _listen_. 

 

Even still, Yukimura doesn't know what to do when Sanada's brother actually comes hours later (hours past when he said he would, at that), and he certainly doesn't know what to do when the sight of Sanada's back is the last thing he sees. 

 

He really doesn't like not knowing what to do. (Being helpless is definitely the worst thing, far worse than losing).

 

It's only a week before the first day of high school, and so Yukimura refuses to lose focus, no matter how _everything_ they had planned is in tatters. With that in mind, he throws his full focus into what he _can_ do--grab hold of the captaincy of the tennis club, and carve out the empire they should have had. No-- _will_ have, once he figures this out. 

 

Yukimura is told his personality suffers because of it, even only a week into school. That's fine. Maybe then, there will be much more enthusiasm regarding retrieving Sanada, and _promptly_. 

 

~~

 

Sanada isn’t quite prepared for the look of his brother’s apartment, up in rural Ibaraki. When he’d told Yukimura that Hiroto lived up North, he still hadn’t quite planned for all the rice fields and apple orchards, and the sight of old women with wheelbarows being a more common sight than a building with more than three stories. 

 

The apartment itself is small in the way only rural apartments are, on the ground floor with unnecessarily high ceilings and ample, free places to park his car outside, but a bathroom where he could easily touch all four walls at the same time without trying very hard. The kitchen is a single gas burner on top of a mini fridge, and a sink, all in the hallway he has to turn sideways to walk through. Hiroto says it’s good to have him, because he can use the top shelves to store more of his beer.

 

There’s a bedroom with a single futon on the floor, and Hiroto promises they’ll get him a futon soon. He sleeps on the floor the first night, and the cold comes up from the ground, chilling him until he has to take a hot shower to unthaw. The hot water runs out after six minutes, and Hiroto slaps him upside the head for using it all.

 

Hiroto has work in the morning, but he doesn’t go. He brings home a girl instead, and kicks Sanada out, telling him to go explore, go make friends. He doesn’t hand over a key, and doesn’t tell him when he can come home. Sanada hears the lock click shut behind him when he leaves.

 

~

 

"Captain Yukimura," Marui says with all the seriousness one can muster with a mouthful of bubblegum just asking to be blown and popped, "is off the deep end."

 

He gets a smack on the back of his head for that--light, not nearly as potent as anything that Sanada himself would deal out, and Yukimura pretends, for once, not to hear him or any of the other club's mutterings. He's too distracted (too stressed, too annoyed by upperclassmen that try to challenge him for a minute [he crushes them], too angry with his parents and their inability to _see_ how bad this is). 

 

Sanada is sending him poetry. _Poetry._ That's how bad it is. Of course, he makes it worse by sending back refusals to toss it all in the river as Sanada requests.

 

When he asks for the fiftieth time to visit Sanada in Ibaraki and they refuse (he isn't going to collapse, he's just fine now, what do they know about how hard he's worked to be better again when it felt like Sanada was at his side during _the hospital_ more than they were), Yukimura decides to take matters into his own hands. 

 

"Who here is the same height as me?"

 

It takes some finagling, but someone worthy is chosen, a wig (sort of laughingly) procured, and it doesn't take _much_ effort to shove the slightly worried sub-regular into his bedroom while his parents are away. "It's fine," Yukimura insists, all smiles that don't go to his eyes. "I'll be back tonight before they're even home." _Maybe_. It's worth getting in trouble for, if he isn't.

 

He drags Jackal and Marui along, which is for the best in the event something _does_ go wrong (nothing will, he'll make sure of it, and it isn't like either of them can lead practice in his absence like Yanagi or Yagyuu can). The train ride is nearly unbearable, and he almost understands why his parents didn't want him to go. It's fine, though. It's Sanada, and he's going to go where Sanada is even if he can't bring Sanada back to him (yet). 

 

"Wow," Marui remarks, as the last train rolls to a stop at its final destination. "This is _definitely_ the middle of nowhere." 

 

Yukimura levels a stare at him. "Do make sure not to remind Sanada of that." Marui winces, point taken, and Yukimura decides to pretend he didn't bring any sort of protective detail along as he steps off the train, tennis bag thrown over one shoulder. 

 

~

 

Sanada stays late after school every day. He has to, if he’s going to turn the two singles players he’s managed to locate from P.E. class into actual tennis players. They have no doubles, but there are four boys who are impressed enough with the new transfer student from Tokyo that they’ll agree to stand there looking stupid during doubles matches. If he can just bring Mitzunari and Kaede up to a passable standard and they have absurdly good luck, they might get to prefecturals. He can’t bear not to see Yukimura there, at least. 

 

Hiroto doesn’t let him visit Tokyo. He doesn’t _care_ , but there’s no money for trips when it’s all been spent on beer and cigarettes, when he finds out Hiroto’s already blown through his entire inheritance by using it in place of a paycheck.

 

Rural schools don’t care if the students have after school jobs, something prohibited at the good schools in Kanagawa. Sanada starts picking cabbages in the field after tennis practice. The owner, Sato-san, says he’s never met a more industrious boy.

 

It takes Hiroto almost two weeks to find where Sanada hides his meager paycheck. It disappears. Sanada changes his hiding place, not an easy thing to do in such a small apartment. It disappears again. After two months, he digs a hole at nighttime, in Sato-san’s field. Neither he nor Hiroto ever mention it again.

 

He leaves each morning at six am, when Hiroto comes home from the town’s only “snack bar,” the closest thing they have to a hostess club. He uses the time to run twelve kilometers to school instead of waiting for the bus. It keeps him toned, and keeps him focused. He showers at the school gym, and changes into his uniform with enough time to spare that he locks himself in the calligraphy classroom for half an hour. The teachers love him, and don’t mind that he uses all the ink and paper, carefully smoothing his thoughts into elegant strokes of the brush.

 

They’re never perfect, his ruminations on the trees outside his window. They all turn into Yukimura somehow.

 

He sends them, because there’s a hole inside him where someone he loves used to be. He begs Yukimura to throw them in the river, because they aren’t perfect. 

 

Not yet.

 

~

 

" _This_ is his school?"

 

Yukimura nearly snaps at Marui to start running laps around it right then and there. The tension from that urge is palpable, and Marui doesn't say anything again, not even when Yukimura lets himself onto the grounds and immediately finds the tennis courts like it's his sixth sense--if one can even call the 'courts' courts, and the 'club' is… well… 

 

"Sanada." It's sort of the only greeting Yukimura need offer. 

 

Sanada’s racket slips a few inches, almost hitting the ground before he catches it. His body goes stiff, breath catching, and only someone who knows him like Yukimura would be able to tell.

 

“Ten laps.” His voice is brusque, businesslike, but even the doubles players don’t argue. Maybe it’s the look on his face. The six other players take off around the court, and Sanada turns very slowly to confirm what he knows, what he’s certain of with every pound of his heart. 

 

“Yukimura.” 

 

That’s at least acceptable, and he isn’t whispering, _Seiichi_ , and running forward to bury his face in Yukimura’s neck.

 

Except he is taking a few strides forward, and his arms are around Yukimura’s slim form, and he’s pretty sure he _is_ murmuring, “Seiichi,” into Yukimura’s neck, and Yukimura’s feet are probably not touching the ground.

 

All of the tension from the hours and hours of the train and days and weeks _without_ dissolves in an instant, and Yukimura shudders out a breath, his bag slinking off his shoulder with a thump and his arms tossed around Sanada's neck for a long, firm squeeze. "Genichirou," he murmurs, and wiggles his toes in his shoes that _definitely_ are hovering. "You got taller. Stop that."

 

Sanada takes the _stop that_ as a literal command, and gently sets his captain (current, not former, no matter what school he’s playing for) on the ground. He finally tears his eyes away, and gives Marui and Jackal a grateful nod. “Thanks.”

 

“Course.” Jackal nods back, and they exchange a firm hand grip. 

 

Sanada cares enough to give Marui a clap on the shoulder, then turns back to Yukimura, drawn there as if by an unstoppable force. He doesn’t bother to say _I missed you_ , because that’s sort of pathetic and his poems have said that, besides. “How long will you stay?”

 

"We're gonna go eat things," Marui puts in with a firm nod, saluting Sanada once before grabbing Jackal's arm and praying to god that his phone gets enough reception to let some of his food-finding apps work. 

 

Yukimura thusly beams up at Sanada, looking entirely too proud of himself. "How long am I allowed to stay?" 

 

“Food is that way,” Sanada says, not looking away from Yukimura (as if he could) when he waves towards a convenience store a block or so away from the school. Then he takes Yukimura’s hand, tugging him into the empty sports shed by the court, rusty and dusty like they’d never have allowed at Rikkai. 

 

He’s not sure when he snaps, lifting Yukimura again and sealing their lips together, pressing the clean white back of Yukimura’s jacket against a smudged, aged wooden door that keeps trying to drop cobwebs on both of them.

 

A low, eager groan is all Yukimura offers when his hands claw up the back of Sanada's neck, cheerfully knocking his hat off to better fist his fingers into his hair. "Missed you," he mumbles, _really_ not minding that Sanada can lift him as easily as a rag doll, or that he's going to be smudged and mussed and you know, maybe that's for the best when Sanada kisses him like he's _hungry_ and there's not much else he can do but do the same right back. 

 

“Missed you.” It’s a groaned admission, torn from Sanada’s chest, and he forgets to be nervous. Yukimura usually makes him nervous when they start kissing, or when he sidles closer with a look in his eyes like he _wants_ something. Maybe it’s because he looks fitter now, skin starting to tan from time in the sun instead of being sickly-pale from the hospital, more muscular, and above all, _grabbing at him._  

 

He shoves away the thought that Yukimura is going to leave again, and grabs onto the man that’s here, kissing him so thoroughly his bones shake.

 

Yukimura huffs against his mouth, eyes fluttering shut and his teeth biting, scraping at Sanada's lower lip when he can't _help_ but want to nibble and taste after so long. There's so much that's familiar there and so much that _isn't_ , like how he's taller and broader even in such a short period of time, like how he smells of earth far more than anything Yukimura would associate with _tennis_ \--

 

An aching surge of heat makes Yukimura grab tighter, dragging his hands down Sanada's back and into his shirt as he wriggles against him. "You _feel_ good." 

 

This is farther than they’ve ever gone, somehow far beyond slow kisses and gentle touches to faces, hands, and hair. Sanada’s sure he should be nervous, should be caring more about where they are, but those emotions aren’t coming. All that’s in his mind is the heat of Yukimura under his fingers, warm and strong and alive and _here_ , not in the hospital, not in Tokyo, but grabbing him, kissing him.

 

Sanada’s going to lose his mind.

 

His hands steal down, trying to readjust them, and wind up on the outsides of Yukimura’s thighs. That makes it easier to pick him up, stepping forward between his thighs, and his breath catches at the warmth, the _promise_ there. “Let me,” he mumbles against Yukimura’s lips, and he’ll apologize later for his impertinence in acting like this, maybe.

 

Yukimura's face goes a little hot in spite of himself, though it's not embarrassment, more in the way he's held, the way Sanada is between his thighs and hot and hard and just _shifting_ a bit makes his own breath come faster. "Why _wouldn't_ I?" he half-laughs, and he takes that as full permission to _squirm_ and squeeze his thighs about Sanada's hips, groaning at the way it feels to let his cock rub against something as warm as he is. He nips at Sanada's mouth again. "If I bite your neck and leave marks, how upset are you going to be?" 

 

“Don’t care.”

 

He’ll care later, probably, but right now all he can think about is that Yukimura wants him _more_. They’d been close to this, once. Yukimura had made a move while they were kissing, letting a hand trail downwards, and Sanada had-- _panicked_ isn’t quite the right word, but he hadn’t let it go any farther, either.

 

They’re older now.

 

They’re older, and he _likes_ the way it feels when he presses forward and feels Yukimura’s cock, hard and rubbing against him, and he had been so sure they weren’t ever going to get back here. His mouth is rough on Yukimura’s lips, and he yanks his school uniform open, baring his neck for what Yukimura apparently wants.

 

Maybe he's a little too eager, but Yukimura doesn't care because the taste of Sanada is hot underneath his mouth, the thud of his pulse rapid beneath his tongue, and he groans as he bites down, sucking on the skin as he clings to Sanada's back, keeping him _close_ as he ruts up, letting his hips roll in slow, languid circles. Even _that_ is almost too much, and Yukimura feels his eyes roll back. " _Genichirou_ ," he rasps, choosing another spot to bite and suck at a second later, all as his back arches and his cock _aches_. 

 

Sanada has never in his life felt the need to _serve_ like he does now. He wants Yukimura to say his name like that again, to say it like that all the time; if he knew how to _make_ it happen, it’s all he’d do.

 

He’s sure his own voice isn’t the same, doesn’t make the blood rush south the way Yukimura’s does moaning his name, but he groans out, “ _Seiichi_ ,” anyway. He groans, and tries to move against him, feeling like it’s all too-fast and forbidden and something he’ll cling to with teeth and nails.

 

Those teeth and nails are in his neck and back, and that’s enough to make Sanada rock-hard. He wants to say, _Let me touch you,_ but Yukimura is letting him, will probably let him touch anything he wants--he’s just not sure where and how. 

 

So he keeps moving slowly, letting Yukimura grind on him, strangely aroused to the point of pain from that alone.

 

Yukimura shudders at the _twinge_ of heat that jerks down his spine, the odd, trembly little thrill of arousal that doesn't _happen_ when he's alone and just _thinking_ of Sanada. It has everything to do with the surprisingly breathy, rumbling way that Sanada says his name, and what else is there to do but groan against his neck in response, leaving another bite mark that he sucks on slowly, and ah, yep, that's definitely one of his shoes falling off and to the dusty floor what with how his toes curl so tightly. 

 

"This is much better… than when I'm by myself," he mumbles, breath hiccuping as he claws a hand down, possessively raking his nails down Sanada's lower back to grab at the curve of his rear. Yukimura has no regrets about _squeezing_ either, not when his cock throbs and he pants out each breath hot and eager into Sanada's neck. "You're going to make us both a _mess_." _Don't you dare stop_. 

 

Thinking of Yukimura doing this alone is nearly too much. He can’t help it. The thought of Yukimura, laying back in his bed, hair spilling on the pillow as he wraps a hand around himself--

 

Sanada swallows hard, and he lurches forward without meaning to, liking the way Yukimura grabs him a lot more than he wants to. “How?” he breathes, suddenly needing to _know_. “Facedown? Bathtub?” His hands dig into Yukimura’s thighs, and he groans. “Do you think about…” If Yukimura says yes, his cock is going to explode.

 

" _You_ ," Yukimura groans in return, shoving his face down into Sanada's neck when he can't even think to _bite_ anymore, not when his cock is this hard and he can feel Sanada against him and smell him and ah, _god_ , Sanada is so hard, too, when he rubs against him and grabs at him so tightly that even his fingers hurt. "Think about you--bath, sometimes, or again, afterwards, in bed, I--god, _Genichirou_ \--" 

 

They really _are_ going to be a mess, but that's fine, Yukimura doesn't _care_ , not when he stifles a broken, throaty whine into Sanada's shoulder as he comes with a hard shudder, hips an insistent, needy grind against him. 

 

Some odd masculine surge of pride is grateful that Yukimura came first--but most of Sanada doesn’t _care_ , he’s so overwhelmed by the idea that Yukimura _just came because of me._

 

He can’t think of his school uniform, hips rutting up shamelessly against Yukimura’s, feeling the slick wetness and knowing _that was me, he did that because of me, perfect Captain Yukimura is a mess and making those noises because of me--_

 

And then it’s not just Yukimura, but both of them, and he can’t remember anything. They sag to the ground when his legs won’t hold them up anymore, tangled in dust and cobwebs and dirt and each other, panting out slow, needing, open-mouthed kisses against Yukimura’s cheeks and lips.

 

Yukimura sort of headbutts his face against Sanada's helplessly, groaning out a sigh and mouthing a wet, sloppy kiss against the side of Sanada's mouth as he sags back bonelessly. Both of them are sticky and it's already starting to chafe a bit, but Yukimura can think of a dozen more pressing things at the moment. For one--"I kept all of them," he dazedly informs the other boy. "I have an album. I'm not throwing them away." 

 

“River,” Sanada insists automatically, but there’s approximately zero fight in the words. He’s sort of floating, confused and happy and more relieved than he’s been in months. This isn’t cold or difficult or frustrating, and Sanada’s just now remembering that those aren’t the only emotions he’s ever felt. “I’ll make better ones. For you.” As if that weren’t implied.

 

"I don't want to throw them in the river," Yukimura happily, petulantly replies, and he hooks his chin over Sanada's shoulder, his arms flopping loosely around his back. "I'll keep all of them that you make. I like reading them when I get home from practice."

 

“They’re not very good.” Sanada refuses to be embarrassed. He can do better, that’s all. “Mm, I bet they’re finished with laps by now. If I don’t tell them not to, they’ll just leave.” He doesn’t move.

 

Yukimura scrunches his nose up in disapproval at that, even as he lets the subject of poems drop. "It's difficult to find good work ethic. Are any of them any good?"

 

“No.” It’s the truth. “One of them would have been good if he’d come to it young. One more is a hard worker with enough athletic talent to get him through. The others are useless and know it.” He butts his head against Yukimura’s, gently. “Tell me everything about home.”

 

A long, thoughtful sigh follows that, and Yukimura rubs his nose against Sanada's cheek. "Frustrating," he admits after another moment. "The upperclassmen were reluctant and then resentful during tryouts. It's difficult to form a team when some of them still won't recognize me as captain. Yanagi is no help because he's too relenting, Marui and Jackal just try to be friends with everyone, and Yagyuu and Niou… are what they are and _ugh_ ," he finishes, dropping his face into Sanada's shoulder again. "It's very difficult ruling without an emperor, you know." 

 

“Even for a demigod?”

 

He understands, though. His voice is gentle, and he moves, brushing Yukimura’s hair back from his face with a feather-light touch of his fingers. “I’m going to get to Kantou. No matter what I have to do. Because you’ll be there.”

 

"I'm going to have you back before then." Yukimura leans his head into Sanada's hand, tilting his head just enough to peer up at him. "I already had your jacket made. I brought it with me, so you can have it in the meantime." 

 

Sanada’s mouth closes abruptly, and his eyes start to sting. “I haven’t earned it yet. I abandoned you.”

 

Yukimura gently pinches his side. "Far from willingly. Either way, you're not allowed to say no; it even rode next to my jacket the whole way here."

 

That, as far as Sanada is concerned, is that. He nods, not as stiffly as he wants to, suddenly aware of his own intense weariness. “How’s Kirihara?” he asks, changing the subject so he doesn’t have to demur again.

 

"Bearing with the transition." Yukimura tries not to laugh at that, actually--and manages it, when he shifts and remembers with a wince what a mess they both are. He flops his weight back against the wall, sighing. "Niou went and spied on him a few times. Apparently, he tries to wear his jacket on his shoulders now. It falls off quite often." 

 

Sanada keeps from rolling his eyes--barely. “He needs to learn humility,” he says in a voice not unlike that of a weary parent. “But that is hardly new.” With a fastidious grimace, he fetches a packet of tissues out of one pocket, handing half of the package to Yukimura.

 

"He needs to learn a lot of things," Yukimura agrees, gratefully accepting the tissues and unfolding himself enough to clean up as best he can. "Either way, he's on track to win, I think. He calls me for advice sometimes, which is fine. He asks about you." 

 

Sanada probably shouldn’t watch as closely as he does. It’s embarrassing, to get so much of a thrill from watching Yukimura clean himself up, soft as he is. He hides that by cleaning himself just as thoroughly, tucking the soiled tissues behind an old trash can. It isn’t as if anyone ever comes in here, anyway. “You didn’t say how long you were staying.”

 

"You didn't say how long I was allowed to." Yukimura sighs, sagging back into the wall again. "My parents don't know I'm here," he finally admits. "They wouldn't let me come. Why they still think I'm going to collapse waiting for trains is beyond me." 

 

 _Because you did,_ Sanada wants to say, _and it was the second-worst day of my life._ “So you have to go back tonight?” 

 

He can be forgiven for only focusing on how long he gets to keep Yukimura, he thinks.

 

"In theory," Yukimura hedges. "Though… if the substitute does his job well and feigns being pathetic properly, I could maybe stay longer." 

 

“You’ll worry your parents.” Sanada tries not to lecture, when he knows it means Yukimura will be gone sooner if he succeeds. “You’d….you’d have to get a hotel room, you can’t stay in my apartment.” There’s no room for him, and Sanada would be ashamed to bring him there among the empty beer cans and scattered cigarette butts and broken gaming systems anyway.

 

Yukimura has no qualms about pouting at him, even though he, too, is very aware that staying longer simply won't work. "I don't take up much room, you know." 

 

“I can’t bring you home. I don’t have permission.” The look on Sanada’s face is close to panic. He mentally tallies up what he’s earned, picking cabbages. “I can rent you a hotel room, there’s a place not too far from here, if you want to stay.”

 

Calmly, Yukimura flattens his hand over Sanada's mouth before he can as much as finish that sentence. "It's _fine_ ," he gently says, even if it isn't fine, far from it, and he isn't happy at all with how stressed Sanada seems about the idea of bringing him home. "I'll just come back this weekend instead, earlier. I don't mind the train rides." 

 

That’s about a thousand times better, and Sanada relaxes, sagging slightly into Yukimura’s touch. He wonders if anyone else in the world could have read those emotions on his face--probably not. Definitely not. “It’s not right to leave your team for so long,” he mutters instead, sagging forward now onto Yukimura’s shoulder. “You’re supposed to be leading them for both of us.”

 

"You're part of my team." Yukimura pulls him down, draping an arm around Sanada's neck as he reaches for his hat, seemingly long-forgotten. "Either way," he announces, setting the hat onto his own head, "I'm keeping this."

 

Sanada blinks, then frowns. “That’s--”

 

But Yukimura knows what that hat is, and what it means to him. And honestly, it’ll definitely be safer with him. 

 

Instead of protesting, Sanada reaches out and plucks the headband off of Yukimura’s head, settling it onto his own. “You can’t wear both. It won’t fit.”

 

There's no containing the snort that escapes. "You look ridiculous," Yukimura immediately teases, peering up from underneath the hat's brim. "Also, that thing is gross and sweaty, you definitely don't want it."  

 

Sanada scowls, jamming the headband further onto his head. “That’s going to slip down into your eyes,” he points out. The band is already fairly snug around his own head. “I definitely want this. It’s a fair trade.”

 

"I'm not going to _wear it_ all the time, that'd be silly. I'll just keep it very safe," Yukimura hums, thinking of a few choice locations already. "Anyway, you can have that thing, I guess. I should have known you were that lewd." 

 

“L-lewd?” Sanada stammers, face flushing. “It’s just a fair trade!” Not that he can argue against lewdness _now_ , while both of them still have their uniforms open.

 

"That's why it's lewd." Yukimura smiles slowly, his eyes lidding. "When I say I'll keep your hat in 'safe places', I mean private ones. If it's a fair trade, then you'll have my headband in private, too, right, Genichirou?" 

 

Sanada’s not quite sure why that makes his cock twitch. Worse still, he has a suspicion that Yukimura _is_ sure, and knows quite well. “It’s just a hat,” he mumbles, with little conviction. Yukimura can make socks attractive.

 

" _Your_ hat," Yukimura points out sweetly. "And I'll be very thorough in taking care of it, don't worry."

 

One day, Sanada will probably be able to talk to his best friend without the constant threat of erections. One day, in the long-distant future. “Ah...yeah.”

 

Yukimura gives his head an amused, affectionate pat before he shifts away, fixes his pants and untucks his shirt to at least attempt to be modest, and slowly hauls himself to his feet. "If I'm not allowed back at your apartment, we can play a set, or let me treat you to dinner--or both, if you've the time." 

 

“Both.” He doesn’t have the time, but that’s unimportant. “Let me change, I’ll lend you a spare set of P.E. clothes. I know where they keep them.”

 

"Perfect. And you're trying on your jacket," Yukimura firmly says, swiftly moving to snatch up the long-forgotten tennis bag to fish it out. "I'm still getting used to the new colors," he admits with a laugh, pulling out the neatly folded thing of white and blue. "But being understated is nice in a way, I think." 

 

“It makes it all the more rewarding when you beat your opponents, hmm?” Sanada hazards a guess. “You always like being underestimated.”

 

He moves to put the jacket on, and it fits like only his Rikkai jersey ever has. There’s no mirror, but he doesn’t need one. He knows he looks good.

 

Yukimura doesn't say anything for a moment, and settles instead on breathing, because that's a thing he can _definitely_ do when his chest is suddenly tight and he wonders why he can't try and fit Sanada into his tennis bag and bring him back home _immediately_. "… I won't let anyone else be my vice captain," he eventually says, and reaches out, absently straightening Sanada's collar. "So I have to get you back soon." 

 

“Any news?” Sanada hates himself for asking. Of course there’s nothing Yukimura can do. It’s childlike, to hope he’s wrong, and he’ll be able to go back to a proper life in a proper city with _Yukimura_ , but he doesn’t feel very adult right now.

 

He wants to go _home_.

 

"As soon as I hear something, I'll tell you." That sounds a little bit better than a 'no', but not much. Yukimura sighs, letting his hand drift away. "I'm trying. I'm thinking about holding a competition--the first person in the club to come up with an idea that works gets to play singles one." 

 

Sanada privately thinks that would work a lot better in a club of lawyers than high school boys, but it’s something. He straightens up, grabbing Yukimura’s bag and his own absently and slinging it over his shoulder as a force of habit, leading the way out to the court. “One set match?”

 

"Mmhm. Don't wear my headband, you'll sweat too much playing me and that'll ruin it." 

 

Sanada gives him a thin smile, pulling off the headband and tucking it in his pocket. “Mm. Then it won’t smell like you. Rough or smooth?”

 

Yukimura declines to compliment Sanada on that comeback, and chooses to bask in it instead. "Rough," is his cheerful reply. 

 

It’s rough, of course. Sanada gives Yukimura a sour grin, and takes his place on the court. “Twenty minutes before they close up. I’ll try to make this quick.”

 

" _You'll_ make it quick?" In a way, it's a relief that it's so easy to fall back into old banter and habits and _everything_. In another way, it's the worst, because there's the knowledge that he'll be without again in just a number of hours. Yukimura sucks in a deep breath, shoves that out of his mind, and serves. 

 

Tennis, at least, makes _sense_. 

 

Twenty minutes isn't anywhere near enough for one of their games, let alone the ones that they enjoy playing. The score is a pleasant 2-1 when they're forced to go, with Sanada edging up on making it 2-2 and Yukimura intensely annoyed that they have to leave at all. "After-hours practices are a _thing_ ," he grumbles to Sanada underneath his breath. "I don't like your school, can you fit into my tennis bag so I can bring you home?" 

 

“You said yourself, I got taller.” Sanada gives a pained shrug. Going home sounds even less appealing than usual, and usually he drags his feet as if going to an execution. “Ah, I forgot. The last train for Mito leaves in half an hour, you’ll have to go now if you want to be home tonight.” His chest constricts in a way that has nothing to do with losing (as usual) at tennis.

 

"Please stop growing." Yukimura bites his lip, seriously considering (not for the first time) his options regarding _staying_ for the night. There aren't many, and he's not going to stop being upset about it. "Marui and Jackal are probably already at the station," he relents. "We'll do a _real_ dinner this weekend, but at least let me treat you at the convenience store right now." This weekend, Marui and Jackal definitely don't need to come, no matter how everyone insists on making sure he has an entourage. It isn't like he's _allergic_ to trains.

 

Sanada doesn’t care how bad the bentos are at the convenience store. There’s inoffensive udon, at least, and the clerks microwave it while Yukimura’s paying. It’s a far cry from the daikon stew over rice he’s had for the last three weeks, and at least he doesn’t have to prepare this one himself. 

 

And it’s Yukimura that bought it for him, so it’s a thousand times more delicious. Not that he’s in love.

 

He finishes quickly, tossing the plastic into the garbage can. “I’m walking you to the station,” he says, as if there’s ever been any doubt. It isn’t like he’ll ever let Yukimura on a train platform alone, if he can help it.

 

"Good." 

 

Yukimura isn't 100% happy with it, but how can he be when it means he's leaving? Again, he tries to think of ways to make this _work_ \--it can't be that difficult to kidnap someone and hide them, can it? God, he's turning into a delinquent--only to come up empty and frustrated and with a lump in his throat that won't quite go away when he briefly leans his head against Sanada's shoulder. "Just a little while longer," he quietly promises. "I don't care what I have to do." 

 

Sanada starts to say something very vulnerable-- _I have had to rethink how independent I am, and I have come to the conclusion that I don’t want to be anything but by your side_ \--but stops, because that’s the sort of thing that’s only acceptable in a poem. Maybe he won’t tell Yukimura to throw this one in the river. 

 

His head bows, and he doesn’t care that there are other people on the platform. Rebelliously, he doesn’t care if every person in this tiny insignificant town think he’s a homo for wrapping his arms around Yukimura, lifting him a little. There’s little hope, he knows. “See you this weekend. And at prefecturals,” he promises gravely.

 

"If it takes that long, I'll order an upperclassman to transfer here for you," Yukimura very seriously returns, content to let himself dangle for a moment. He refrains from kissing Sanada--only for Sanada's sake, because at this point, there's little care in his own mind. "See you this weekend," he quietly adds, giving Sanada's neck a gentle squeeze. 


	2. Chapter 2

Waiting for the weekend is harder than it’s ever been. 

 

Sanada begs his brother, pleads with him, and finally bribes him to leave the apartment. His brother accepts the rest of his savings, along with a promise to work all his week’s shifts at the 7-11, and gives him a slap upside the head with a grin that pretends to be affectionate. He would have left anyway, he teases, since Genichirou is obviously finally going to stop being a cherry boy. 

 

Sanada doesn’t protest, because he’s too embarrassed. Hiroto laughs, and doesn’t give his money back, but he leaves. Sanada spends two days cleaning the apartment, washing every surface, every fabric, everything that can be washed with strongly-scented soap. Some of the linens aren’t quite dry when he takes them down to avoid a quick typhoon, locking the sliding metal shutters down to wall out the worst of the moisture.

 

The power goes out, but that isn’t uncommon. He knows where the breaker is, but doesn’t bother turning it on until morning. Out of rebellion, he sets his futon on top of Hiroto’s, and has a decent night’s sleep for once.

 

There are only five trains coming into town on any given day. Sanada rides his bicycle to the train station at 4:57am on Saturday. If he has to check all five, it’ll still be time well-spent.

 

Yukimura can spin a few very good lies on any given day. 

 

Leaving the house obscenely early on the weekends isn't terribly _unusual_ for him, though his parents are a bit more worrisome to deal with when it comes to long practice hours nowadays. He supposes he can't blame them, though it's annoying when he can't sneak out at midnight to catch the absolute earliest train. Most people don't practice tennis at midnight (or so he's been told).

 

The next train leaves at around five, which is good enough for him, and he's very sure that Jackal and Marui are grateful that they don't have to come along this time. Yukimura dozes on the train for about an hour before he's up, compiling lists of the upperclassmen that are still vying to be regulars over his own handpicked team, and it's sort of nice, to have so many talented possibilities to choose from. 

 

Now if only he had a vice captain. 

 

He finally hops off the train in the little station, tilting his head to the side to stretch out his neck. Sanada stands out as always--not just because of his height, but because it's _Sanada_ , and those hours of irritating travel are so, so worth it. 

 

Sanada doesn’t leave his bicycle on a heap on the ground, but only because he tries hard. He doesn’t run, but it’s close, and it’s a long-legged stride over to Yukimura. He doesn’t bother thinking about the people around him, doesn’t _care_ , because Yukimura is in his arms, closer than he’s ever been. 

 

He doesn’t say _I missed you_ or _I knew you’d come_ , because Yukimura knows those things. He pulls away after a long minute, ignoring the impulse to say _It Isn’t Enough_ , and slings Yukimura’s tennis bag over his shoulder, getting on the bicycle seat. “Mind riding on the handlebars? We can go to my place this time.”

 

"Ooh, so you got permission," Yukimura teases, and in one easy motion, settles himself into place, neatly balanced. "Try not to jostle my bag too much. I tried to pack it all in carefully, but Marui cooked a bunch of things for you and I don't want them to get messed up." 

 

The idea of Marui’s cooking after so long on vegetable stew and school food makes Sanada’s mouth water. He’s as careful as possible with the bag, launching them easily into motion with a single pump of his calves. 

 

It’s not too far by bicycle, and they’re at the apartment in ten minutes, no matter how often Sanada wants to stop to nuzzle his face into the smooth belly right in front of it. The landlord had let him borrow a power hose as long as he promised to wash the whole building, so it looks better than usual outside. Still, there’s no hiding the fact that it’s a 16-apartment complex made out of gray concrete on a side-alley full of potholes, overlooking nothing but rice farms with millions of croaking frogs. 

 

“It’s nothing like you’re used to,” he says quietly, not meeting Yukimura’s eyes eyes when he opens the door (unlocked, because Hiroto still won’t give him a key). “But it’s clean, I promise.”

 

Yukimura gives him a _look_ , takes about two steps inside (which is enough to shut the door, at least), and firmly grabs Sanada by the front of his shirt to shove him back into the wall. 

 

"If you really think I care about _where_ I get to see you," Yukimura breathes, wrapping his arms around Sanada's neck to yank him down, "then you are sorely mistaken." Kissing Sanada _hard_ seems the logical follow-up, and if nothing else, it's a very much needed return favor for the last time in that shed.

 

All of Sanada’s worries about the state of his apartment, his shame about the meager state of his housing, his nervousness about seeing Yukimura again all disappear in an instant. His breath leaves in a startled huff when his back collides with the wall, and the huff turns into a _groan_ the next instant.

 

It hurts, to go from soft to hard so fast, and Sanada doesn’t care. All he can do is rut up against Yukimura, helplessly trying to kiss him back, wondering vaguely if he should enjoy being shoved up against a wall so much.

 

Yukimura idly wonders if this is what distance does. In some ways, maybe the distance is a good thing, because it's only been now and the one previous time that he was here that he has been able to _really_ see Sanada like _this_. 

 

Either way, it's _good_ , and Yukimura is mindlessly lurching up to kiss Sanada back harder, his teeth catching against his lower lip as one hand claws and paws at the front of Sanada's pants. "Let me," he breathlessly insists, his own eyes fluttering at how _hard_ Sanada is underneath his hand, and there's no helping the groan that is just barely swallowed by their kisses. 

 

Sanada nods--hell _yes_ he’ll let Yukimura do whatever he wants, when last time felt _like that_ , and Yukimura’s hand feels _like that_. “Yeah,” he breathes, and his hands go tight around Yukimura’s waist, feeling the lean strength of him, grateful for it, for the vibrancy and _life_ and muscle of him. 

 

He feels _good_ , like his old self only taller, stronger, and best of all, _here_. His mouth tastes like familiar flavors, and Sanada can’t drink in enough of the heady stuff.

 

Yukimura is fairly certain he wouldn't be able to stop even if Sanada had told him to. A request like that would have been a lie, anyway--a really big one, what with how Sanada throbs even harder in his grasp the moment he can actually get his hand down Sanada's pants to _really_ touch him, and Yukimura shudders, biting his own lip as he squeezes slowly. 

 

"You feel even better than last time," Yukimura groans, shoving his face into Sanada's neck to bite down, needing to mark him up again even though he can still see the marks from last time, not quite faded. His own hips twitch forward and he grinds himself against Sanada's hip. "When you come home, we're doing this all the time--"

 

Sanada thinks he nods. But really, it’s hard to think _anything_ when Yukimura is actually touching him, touching him like _that_ , with his hand curled and stroking and pulling Sanada’s brain out through his cock. 

 

He lets his hands brace against the wall, holding him upright as Yukimura moves his hand, trying not to just pass out. He lets out a strangled noise at the press of Yukimura against him, and barely has the presence of mind to try and fumble shakily at the front of the other boy’s pants, not very accurately.

 

"It's fine," is Yukimura's breathless, ragged insistence, and rather than help Sanada with that, he just grabs one of the other boy's hands, dragging it to his own mouth instead. He presses a wet kiss to his palm, then licks a messy stripe up one finger, a ragged shiver twitching up his spine as his own fingers squeeze tighter around Sanada's cock. He's not the most coordinated when it comes to getting Sanada off and doing _other_ things, but that's fine, because Sanada doesn't seem to mind at all. 

 

A finger slides past his lips with a slick pop, and Yukimura gently nips before dragging his tongue along the length of it with a low, rumbling groan. 

 

Sanada lets out a noise somewhere between a croak and a whimper, and comes. Yukimura’s tongue against his finger is unspeakably lewd, enough to make his mind stop functioning entirely, but his cock seems to have no similar issues. At least it isn’t inside his school uniform this time, but against Yukimura’s clothes, hot white stripes leaving them both a sticky, ridiculous mess.

 

He sinks back against the wall, staring hazily at Yukimura’s face as he sucks, and his knees almost buckle. “T-take that off,” he urges, a little dazed. “I’ll wash it.”

 

"In a minute," Yukimura dismissively huffs as he releases Sanada's hand, shoving it down between his legs in short order to grind against it with a breathy sigh. "Touch me first, I want to know what your hands really feel like, Genichirou--" 

 

That sounds a _lot_ better than doing laundry.

 

Sanada sinks slowly down to his knees, deciding to pretend that was intentional rather than admit his knees are buckling. He takes a deep breath, and with steadier hands, opens Yukimura’s trousers, sliding one long-fingered hand inside to pull out his cock.

 

It feels _good_ in his hand, firm and hot to the touch, straighter than his own, which curves slightly when he’s fully erect, and the head looks painfully hard. Sanada squeezes, and strokes the way he likes it on himself, breathing in shallow pants, looking up at Yukimura to see if he likes it.

 

 _Like_ is a definite understatement.

 

Yukimura strangles back a whine, fisting one hand against the wall as he sags forward, his own knees wobbling. "R… really good," he pants out in approval, trying not to think _too much_ about how Sanada is on his knees in front of him, but, ah, that's really nice, almost as nice as how Sanada's fingers are stroking around him and squeezing just _right_ and there's nothing he can do but thrust forward into that grasp--

 

He comes with a groan caught up in his throat, messily dripping over Sanada's hand, and Yukimura wobbles again, barely catching himself and dazedly wondering how he's on his feet still at all. 

 

Sanada’s chest tightens, and he’s on his feet in an instant when Yukimura sways, catching him no matter the mess, no matter that he _knows_ it’s just because of an orgasm. “Don’t fall,” he says, heart thudding more than it would if anyone else had slightly swayed to the side. “Here, there’s a futon.”

 

He’s not sure what to _do_ with the mess on his hand, so he surreptitiously wipes it off on Yukimura’s pants, which he needs to wash anyway, as he helps him to sit down. “Do you need food? Water?”

 

Yukimura instantly grabs at him, hauling Sanada down with him. "Just you," he cheerfully, albeit breathlessly says, flopping bonelessly backwards in short order with Sanada dragged after him. "Ahh, you're just really good at that. I think almost passing out because of orgasms is good, though, right?" 

 

Sanada nods dumbly, toppling down on top of Yukimura and really, _really_ not wanting to move. “Yeah. Good. You’re….”

 

He nuzzles into Yukimura’s neck, nibbling gently, enjoying the way the salt of his skin tastes. “You’re good.”

 

"A poet as always," Yukimura sighs out in praise, giving Sanada's back an affectionate pat as he lets his head loll back and remains contently squished beneath Sanada's weight. "Mm. No moving, stay there."

 

Sanada flushes pink, and butts his head against Yukimura’s neck. “Sorry. I didn’t think. Were you up to that? How are you feeling?”

 

"I'm feeling great, _Dad_. My health is quite good recently, thank you." 

 

Sanada had almost forgotten that nickname. He nips at Yukimura’s neck, as an alternative to wanting to slap him. “I’m not there to make sure. Things can go wrong so fast.” He pauses, then adds, “Right, _Mom_?”

 

Yukimura sniffs, and wraps his hands up into Sanada's hair, yanking his head back down. "I like it better when you're biting and not talking. Yanagi asks me on a daily basis how I'm doing, so he is picking up the slack in your absence, I assure you." 

 

Sanada bites back a response that Yukimura obviously doesn’t _need_ him, in that case. That’s unfit for him. Instead, he curls around him, breathing deeply to taste in every way he knows how. “I had thought we’d get here sooner.”

 

"Mm? You're the one that put this sort of thing off, Genichirou." Yukimura finally finds the strength to roll to the side, nudging Sanada onto his back so that he can flop mostly on top of him. " _I_ was pretty insistent on several occasions. _You_ were the blushing innocent."

 

“I wasn’t blushing!” Sanada looks rather put-out, but he lets himself be rolled, content to have Yukimura unprotesting in his arms. “I was….” Terrified. Confused. A little nervous and sick and excited and totally unready. “It’s better that we waited. Now we know it was right.”

 

"My bed would have been more romantic, but you've made up for it with all your poetry," Yukimura muses, nuzzling up underneath his chin. "I definitely won't throw it away." 

 

“I wasn’t….I didn’t write it to get you into bed,” Sanada says quietly. “It was just how I felt.” There’s no hurt in his tone, just a light rebuke, and his fingers card gently through the waves of Yukimura’s hair.

 

"I know that. Don't be ridiculous." The thought of Sanada writing something to _actually_ try and get him in bed is terribly amusing, and Yukimura scarcely stops himself from laughing. "… But you really did blush a few times before. I remember." 

 

“ _Seiichi_ ,” Sanada protests, fingers tightening as he tugs Yukimura’s head back, pressing an indignant kiss against his lips. He’s not really sure if kisses _can_ be indignant, but this one feels like it. “You should be grateful. Now you’ll always know we waited until it was right. As right as it can be, between two men, at least.”

 

Yukimura tries very hard not to roll his eyes. He settles for reaching a hand up and flicking Sanada squarely on the forehead. "Don't say that again. It's right because it's us; both of us being men has no consequence on it." 

 

Sanada scowls. “You shouldn’t be delusional. You’ll get hurt.” _If I’m not there to protect you._

 

"I'm not delusional. It isn't as if I go around announcing it." Yukimura shoots him an irritated look. "My point stands, though."

 

Sanada thinks about that for a moment. “You think everyone else is wrong.” The thought has occurred to him once or twice, but been dismissed as ridiculous. He doesn’t really _think_ about it too much, what it means that he feels for Yukimura what he never has for a woman. There’s little to think about--it just _is_.

 

"Mm. Absolutely. I certainly don't feel guilty about any of this, nor do I think I should feel that way at all." Yukimura folds his arms, resting his chin atop them as he peers up at Sanada. "So if _we're_ the ones in the wrong, then I suppose I really am a delinquent." 

 

“And I’m the one responsible, I suppose.” Sanada can’t feel too bad about it. Yukimura frequently turns it into his fault, when he wants to misbehave. He turns his head, giving Yukimura a slow kiss. “I don’t care if it’s wrong or not. I’d still be here.”

 

Yukimura hums contently against Sanada's mouth, stretching up to kiss him back properly. "Good answer. I bet my headband even makes you look like a delinquent. That's for the best, really." 

 

“I don’t understand how that could possibly be for the best.”

 

"Well, otherwise, you'd look completely ridiculous. I warned you that it would look bad on you; at least this way you look marginally intimidating. Maybe."

 

“Hmph. Everyone’s already intimidated enough by me up here.”

 

"I've been wondering how often you have to slap them around." 

 

“Too often. Well,” Sanada concedes, “maybe I don’t _need_ to.”

 

"So long as you don't lose your touch. Or find someone you like to slap more than me." 

 

“You’re not my favorite to slap. Be concerned when I find someone I like slapping more than Kirihara.”

 

"I don't know, you certainly seemed to like it that one time. Or maybe it was the comforting me afterwards part that you seemed very engrossed in…"

 

“You’re tempting me now, _Captain_.”

 

"Ooh. I wasn't aware I had done something worthy of it." Yukimura beams at him. "Also, I've been informed I'm delicate, so you should be gentle if you do it." 

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow, and he leans up to gently bite Yukimura’s ear. “I didn’t say you were tempting me to _violence_.”

 

"Then, logically, don't be _gentle_ about it," Yukimura lowly returns, smirking as he tilts his head to nuzzle at Sanada's cheek. "I'm selectively delicate."

 

Sanada’s hand comes up to Yukimura’s face, cupping it gently. “I’m not quite sure what you want me to be ungentle about,” he admits, even though it pains him to.

 

Sanada needs to stop being so obscenely… cute? Naive? Any of the above, really, except not at all, because Yukimura likes him that way. "I'm just teasing you," Yukimura gently dismisses, turning his head to press a kiss to Sanada's palm. "Besides, you said it yourself. It's better if we don't rush things; everything has to be right." 

 

Sanada blinks once, then twice, then a third time. “I don’t….” He frowns. “But we’ve already done it. It _was_ right, wasn’t it?”

 

Yukimura's head tilts a little bit more. "Ah. Well. We did _some_ things. Those were definitely right." 

 

Sanada starts to suspect that Yukimura is teasing him and trying to confuse him on purpose, and he goes quiet, hand stilling in his hair.

 

Oops. Now he's mad. "There's just--hmm." With Sanada, being blunt with this sort of thing is usually the best course of action, even if Sanada ends up a blushing mess (even if he denies it later). "If I were a woman," Yukimura lightly, _diplomatically_ begins, with the state of Sanada's pride in mind, "there'd be a lot more than kissing and me touching you, right? It's the same thing with us both being men." 

 

“But you aren’t a woman. And neither am I,” Sanada points out, a little worried by how often he’s had to point out that they’re homosexuals today. “Sometimes I think you forget that.”

 

Yukimura rolls his eyes again. "I really don't forget that at all. There are just other ways for us to have sex that we haven't yet; that's all I was saying." 

 

Sanada scowls. “Do you think this is funny?” he demands. “Why won’t you speak in plain terms? Do you just enjoy knowing more than I do?”

 

A shrug follows--really, if Sanada wants to know details that badly, then it can't be helped--and Yukimura makes a calm, albeit firm grab for the curve of Sanada's ass. "I'm talking about putting my cock up in _here_ \--or you can put yours in me, I don't care. Either is fine." _Don't suggest he had a lot of time for educational reading while I was in the hospital, now is not the time, don't do it._  

 

Sanada’s face flushes dark. He doesn’t dare pull away, not when he’d bothered Yukimura to get this far, and he can’t chance looking like a coward now. He meets Yukimura’s eyes, trying to quell the little thrum of nervousness (and surprising excitement) going through him. “Fine,” he says quietly, a challenge in his voice.

 

Yukimura peers back at Sanada for a long moment before giving his rear a swat and flopping down with a long, exasperated sigh. "We don't have to do it _now_. I was just mentioning it, for future reference and everything. It wouldn't be very romantic when you're glaring at me like that." 

 

Sanada slumps down onto Yukimura, letting out a breath in a huff. “Sorry. It took me by surprise. I never thought….I just thought it was this. Like by yourself, but with more hands.”

 

"Even if it was just that, I wouldn't mind." Yukimura gently sets his teeth to Sanada's shoulder before rubbing his cheek there after the fact. "We don't even _have_ to do it if you don't want to. It would just be good to try once, I think." 

 

Sanada picks himself up onto his hands, hovering over Yukimura. “I wasn’t complaining,” he says quietly. “I just thought we were already….finished.” He leans down, brushing a kiss over Yukimura’s lips. “Let’s save the rest for when we’re back in Tokyo, then. Both of us.”

 

"Exactly my thinking, then," Yukimura murmurs, smiling as he leans his head up to kiss Sanada again. "It'll be better that way, and we'll have even more to look forward to." 

 

Sanada can’t think of anything he’s ever looked more forward to in his life. Already he _aches_ to be home. He starts to say something, only to be drowned out when his stomach rolls over and gurgles embarrassingly loudly. He flushes, and suggests, “Can I see what food Marui sent?”

 

"Oh, there's a lot. Some of your favorites from Jackal's family's restaurant, too." Yukimura wriggles out from underneath Sanada, stripping out of his pants and down to his boxers when he gets up before grabbing his bag and dragging it over. "Marui thinks you're getting skinny, and was apparently horrified at the quality of food you have up here. Which reminds me," Yukimura adds with a roll of his eyes, passing Sanada a specially made bentou first and foremost, "Niou's new favorite past time is pinching Marui's thighs. It was amusing at first, now it's just pathetic. He lifts a hand and Marui sort of curls up like an armadillo." 

 

Sanada snorts, trying not to tear open the bentou box. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and bowing over it first, murmuring his gratitude before setting his chopsticks to the food, feeling his stomach unclench in satisfaction. “He’s always been a problem. You’re too gentle with him. It’s because you think he’s funny you give him leeway. Here, eat,” he urges, handing over a second pair of chopsticks.

 

"Says the man that let Akaya get away with everything, _especially_ while I was in the hospital," Yukimura mildly returns, stealing one of his own favorite pieces quickly before savoring it with a long, thoughtful chew. "If Marui didn't react so openly, Niou would stop. Or, you know, Jackal will hit him and then he'll stop. Whatever comes first, at this rate." 

 

“Jackal retaliates too hard sometimes,” Sanada warns, having dealt out several peremptory slaps himself. “And Niou doesn’t get bored nearly fast enough. You’re setting yourself up for more headaches.” He chews, then adds, “At least this might get Marui to cut down on the sweets before his teeth rot out.”

 

"False on all counts. The entire team is a headache as of late." _Without you around_ is unspoken, unneeded, and so is the _everything is a headache_. "Maybe if they fight to the death, that would be for the best. And Marui will never stop eating sweets and you know it. He baked you a whole cake, but I could only fit half of it in here."

 

“It was thoughtful anyway.” Already Sanada is wondering where he can hide most of this food to keep Hiroto from eating it while he’s at school. Ah, well. He’ll just eat all he can now.

 

With that in mind, and the knowledge that everything is transient, he eats swiftly, thoroughly enjoying every bite. “You’re all good to me. I’ll repay the favor when I get home.”

 

"You coming home will be enough," Yukimura tells him around a mouthful of cake, wiping the crumbs from the corner of his own mouth. "Here's something funny to think about, at least. Seigaku has worse doubles than you do, or so I've heard." 

 

Sanada snorts so hard a bit of ginger goes up the wrong way, a truly horrifying experience. When he finally finishes sneezing, he nods, wiping tears from his eyes. “That would be quite a feat. I’m not sure mine even know which end of the racket to hold.”

 

"We should go watch some of their matches together," Yukimura says, perhaps a little too gleefully. "I bet they won't be able to pull through on their singles matches all the time, they don't have the discipline." 

 

“I give him one match before he goes to another school,” Sanada says dismissively. They both know who he’s talking about. “Let’s see how much team spirit he has when they lose for him.”

 

For once, Yukimura scowls, and stabs a cherry right off the top of the piece of cake he's been prodding at for awhile now. "What sort of brat goes and plays in the US Open and then goes back to play middle school tennis? He's just _patronizing_ at this point."

 

“He thinks he has team spirit. Team spirit,” Sanada says gravely, “is still believing in your team when you lose, and you should have won. Not when you always win no matter what.”

 

Yukimura's head inclines, and he nibbles slowly on the skewered cherry. "I hope he comes to our high school. He might learn a proper lesson in humility with our guidance." 

 

Sanada has a few things to say about proper humility, especially when Yukimura is nibbling like that. He finds his eyes kind of fixed on those swollen lips. “Ah. Yeah.”

 

Yukimura's eyebrows lift, and he pops the cherry into his mouth, stem and all. "You blushed earlier, by the way," he says, chewing slowly and swallowing. Another moment, and then he sticks his tongue out, plucking the now apparently knotted stem off of it and handing it to Sanada triumphantly. 

 

Sanada swallows hard. “You’re being….” His brain falters. He takes the stem, and tries to breathe. “You are.” Did that make sense?

 

"Uh huh." Yukimura stretches out a leg to poke him with his toes. "Try again." 

 

Sanada shakes his head to try and clear it, banishing the image of Yukimura sucking on his finger. Unsuccessfully. “You’re very cruel.” Subject, verb, object. Definitely a sentence.

 

Yukimura paints a very successful picture of innocence. "Me? But I even gave you a present. You can keep that cherry stem and think of me. It's sort of poetic, don't you think?" 

 

“I always think of you when I think of cherries.” And sunsets. And rivers. And the sky. And falling leaves.

 

"You're too perfect sometimes." Yukimura leans in, stealing a quick kiss. "I almost feel bad teasing you because of it." 

 

Sanada blinks. “How did that….” But he leans into the kiss anyway, because there’s never enough air to breathe. “You never feel bad teasing me,” he accuses sort of breathlessly.

 

"I _did_ say almost." Yukimura scoots over in short order, deposits himself into Sanada's lap, and kisses him again for good measure before stealing a last piece of sushi. 

 

“You taste like sushi.” It’s far from a complaint. Sanada hooks his chin over Yukimura’s head, and huffs out a breath. “Eat more.”

 

"It's for you, you eat it." Yukimura curls himself into a surprisingly compact ball, snuggled tightly against Sanada's chest. "You're skinny. That's not allowed."

 

“Am I?” Sanada asks, surprised. He hasn’t spent much time looking at himself in the one-foot mirror above the bathroom, not with how quickly it fogs up. He sighs, finishing off the rest of the bentou. “I miss practicing kendo. I wish you brought a sword.”

 

"I'll bring one next time. And anything else you want, make a list." Yukimura idly pokes at Sanada's chest, then trails that finger down to his ribs. "You're definitely skinny, Marui was right. I'm going to weigh more than you at this rate." 

 

“Stop that. If you start pinching me like Niou does to him, I’ll treat you like I would Niou.” He won’t, of course. “And all I need is my sword. I can keep it at school. They don’t even _have_ a kendo club here.”

 

"I'm not pinching, I'm just checking." Yukimura wrinkles his nose. "And that sounds so… wrong, somehow. What school doesn't have a _kendo_ club?" 

 

“A very small one.” Sanada shrugs wearily, curling his arms around Yukimura, noticing for the first time that the difference in their sizes, unlike their heights, is growing more narrow. “It only had a music club and a baseball club. I started the tennis club.”

 

"Well, you won't have to put up with that for much longer." One way or another. Yukimura rubs his cheek slowly against Sanada's chest. "The club seems to be trying to come up with ideas after the singles one spot offer, but there's nothing good. Yet." He frowns, and adds begrudgingly, "Niou suggested I speak to Atobe. How dangerous do you think that is?" 

 

“If you think this is a problem that can be solved with an insipid smile and a pile of money.”

 

"… Well… at this point…" 

 

Sanada grits his teeth. “I suppose he couldn’t make it any _worse_.”

 

"That," Yukimura agrees, "would be difficult." Honestly, he's a little desperate at this point, and _anything_ would be good news. "I suppose I'll call him this weekend, then…" It's still hard to be excited about it.

 

Sanada makes a face, and nearly gags up his sushi. “I really don’t like asking him for anything. I can’t stomach the idea, don’t tell me unless something pans out. And don’t owe him anything if you can help it.”

 

Yukimura can only imagine owing someone like Atobe in a situation like this. The idea makes him unnecessarily annoyed, and so he shoves it out of his mind by shoving his face into Sanada's neck and breathing in the scent of him. "We should play tennis while I'm here. Or you should call up your team if you think they'd come, and I can teach them or a thing or two. It'll be fun."

 

Sanada doubts it will be fun for his team. Still, it would be fun….if only. “Sorry. No public tennis courts out here, and the school is locked up tight. We could play on the road, I guess. No one ever drives up here.”

 

"I can draw a court for us," Yukimura determinedly says. "I haven't done that since we were in elementary school. It'll be refreshing." 

 

“That’s one word for it,” Sanada mutters under his breath. Then, he hesitates. “Do you have two rackets? I don’t trust….I keep mine at school.”

 

"Of course I do." More than ever, Yukimura wants to drag him out of this hellhole and back _home_. He burrows closer for good measure. "You can play with my favorite one, even, if you want." 

 

“Definitely not. I want to beat you at your best, or not at all.” Unlike that Ryouma child, of course. But to some, winning will always be everything, even above and beyond winning honorably.

 

Yukimura snorts. "We'll scare your team off if we play seriously." 

 

“You scare everyone when you play seriously, sooner or later.”

 

"All I'm doing is playing tennis." 

 

“And everyone is afraid for no reason?” Sanada remembers too well how it feels to play a serious Yukimura.

 

"I didn't say _that_. Just that people are a little overdramatic about it," Yukimura sweetly replies. "No one's immune to dramatics, I suppose." 

 

 _Least of all, you._ “Give me your clothes, I’m going to wash them while we play.”

 

"Do I get to wear one of your jerseys in the meantime?"

 

Sanada agrees immediately. Clothes are at least one thing Hiroto leaves alone, seeing as how his brother is a good six inches shorter than he is. He opens the closet, then shuts it quickly. “Look away,” he orders, hiding the broken gaming systems and dirty magazines that usually cover the floor of their apartment stuffed into the closet.

 

Yukimura tries not to roll his eyes as he does as he's told, diverting his gaze to a very empty wall. "I really don't mind if things are a mess, you know. We've seen Akaya's room, after all." 

 

“But this is _my_ room. I don’t expect anything more from Akaya.” Sanada stuffs his arm inside, fishing out a couple of jerseys, and stripping off his own clothes without thinking much of it, tossing the other to Yukimura. “Just toss them in the washing machine, it’s in the kitchen.”

 

"I don't mind if you're a mess either, though," Yukimura tosses over his shoulder, stripping as he rises and throwing everything into the washing machine as he pulls Sanada's jersey over his head. "Honestly," he wistfully says as he shakes out his hair, "preferences aside, living in a place like this wouldn't be _bad_ , if it were both of us. As long as you're there, I don't care what it looks like or where we are."

 

“It’s not the space,” Sanada agrees quietly, turning to lean back against the wall, watching Yukimura move. “It’s how far it is from you. You know I could live in a hut in the middle of a rice field, I don’t care how many restaurants are nearby.”

 

"Living in the middle of nowhere wouldn't be bad at all, actually," Yukimura muses, turning to face him with a careful stretch of his arms over his head. "Maybe we can do that at some point--you know, when we inevitably get sick of everyone and want to become recluses that even grow all of their own food." 

 

“The solitude is nice, sometimes,” Sanada admits, reaching out to tug Yukimura closer with one finger in his collar. “And I’ll show you the stars tonight, you’ve never seen so many. I’d live on a mountain with you.”

 

"We can get snowed in entirely and curl up underneath a kotatsu together," Yukimura happily agrees, obliging Sanada by slinking closer and draping his arms loosely over his shoulders. "I don't need much of anything else." 

 

“You know better than to sleep under a kotatsu like a foreigner,” Sanada reprimands gently, leaning down to brush their lips together. “You’ll get dehydrated and die. I’ll keep you warm.”

 

"I won't _sleep_ under it. I just said curl up, there's nothing wrong with curling up," Yukimura defensively replies, gently nipping at Sanada's lower lip. "But you can keep me warm anyway." 

 

“You,” Sanada rumbles, arms curling around Yukimura’s lower back, “are making me care less about going to play tennis and more about curling up with you. Is this a new tennis trick?”

 

"Mmmn, maybe." Yukimura is sure that he regrets nothing. He leans up onto tiptoe to properly hook his chin over Sanada's shoulder. "We can curl up instead. Tennis and tormenting--I mean, properly schooling your team can happen later."

 

Sanada reaches back and flips the washing machine on before sinking down to the futon, kissing Yukimura thoroughly for several minutes before finally releasing him. “We can play tennis later,” he murmurs, “on a real court.”


	3. Chapter 3

It's a promise that Yukimura wants to hold him to. 

 

The _problem_ is that his own promise of returning sometime in the middle of next week simply won't be fulfilled, not when he returns home late, _late_ that evening to the scrutinizing, demanding stares of his parents. They _know_. No matter the care Yukimura put into such an elaborate lie, there's only so much that can be done about upperclassmen ratting him out when his parents find their numbers and call and confirm that he isn't practicing long hours, he isn't around at _all_ , and from there, there are just logical conclusions they can reach. 

 

"Think of your health, Seiichi! If you want to keep visiting your friend so badly, then you simply can't keep playing tennis at such a strenuous level. Those long train rides aren't good for you, you're still--" 

 

Still _what?_

 

Yukimura wants to throw a tantrum like a child, and is fairly certain that he comes close, what with how he slams his bedroom door in his parents' faces. The insinuation that he can't sit on a damned train for six hours and also play a game of tennis _burns_ , and he texts Yanagi faster than anything, demanding a match for the next day, needing desperately to remind himself that they're wrong (especially when even Sanada still looks at him worriedly sometimes, and clearly expects him to keel over, and that makes his temper spike faster than anything).

 

It also doesn't change the fact that he simply can't escape onto a train again any time soon. Atobe's number hovers in his phone several times over, disappearing when the screen goes idle and Yukimura can't quite find the strength to hit _call_. A text will do. God, how did he even get Atobe Keigo's number, anyway? Someone must have grabbed his phone months ago and stuck it in there, because obviously, all of the captains should be buddy-buddy. _Not._ Atobe is tacky at best, no matter his talent, and it isn't that Yukimura harbors any sort of ill-will against him, it's more… he simply doesn't _care_. 

 

Be that as it may--

 

 _If you have a free moment tomorrow, can we meet and chat?_ After he plays Yanagi--wins--and calms the irritated twitch of his ego. 

 

“I thought you’d never text.” Atobe sits back, legs crossed, smiling smugly, with his arms resting on the bleachers behind him.

 

No, too formal.

 

“You finally finished being so awed by me that you--”

 

Too wordy.

 

Atobe checks his watch, annoyed. Yukimura will be here any minute, and he still can’t think of the proper opening line. He’s unaccustomed to meeting with people that have beaten him, given how few of those there are besides Tezuka. Ah, if only it were Tezuka meeting him here, now that would be entertaining. Yukimura always makes him feel a little uneasy, as if he’s not sure whether he’ll have to run to the hospital or lose pathetically at tennis. Still, an invitation is an invitation, and promises to be more entertaining than what Shishido had proposed, which had been something like camping, of all things. Atobe privately believes that his team chooses activities to spite him, or possibly to punish him for every day he doesn’t throw a pool party. He should definitely throw more pool parties. Maybe Yukimura would come to a pool party, if he found out it was in a pool the size of six Olympic pools stuck together, and infinity pools set into the side of a mountain no less!

 

Yes, that would be a more level playing field.

 

So distracted is he that he almost doesn’t notice the gate to the court opening, and barely has time to properly secure his jersey around his shoulders--something Yukimura never seems to struggle with, damn him. 

 

He fumbles for an opening phrase as he settles back for Yukimura’s approach, deciding at the last minute on, “So, the mighty captain has come to be graced with my awe-inspiring presence.”

 

Yes, that will do.

 

Yukimura is going to ignore that phrasing entirely. That's _definitely_ for the best. 

 

"Atobe," he greets instead, trying to keep the dryness and even more importantly, weariness from his tone. _Sleeping_ with today in mind wasn't exactly a thing that happened, and playing Yanagi earlier might have taken the edge of his nerves off, but it certainly did his mind no favors about shutting up. "I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me. Shall we cut to the chase?" 

 

He steps up onto the bleachers, and with a smile, deposits himself next to Atobe. "How have you been faring with your new tennis club?" 

 

Atobe’s smile brightens. “Excellent well! Your prowess, I may say, has transcended the local level. Surely we are the only two freshman captains in all of Japan, are we not?”

 

Everyone certainly tells _him_ about the other freshman captain, the other one who’d had to beat an entire tennis club of a hundred members just to achieve that spot. Atobe had held onto his smile until the last defeat, walking jauntily off before dashing into the bathroom to throw up from exhaustion. But no one had seen, and Kabaji had been there when he got out, with a cloth for his forehead and a breathmint.

 

"That does indeed seem to be the case," Yukimura sweetly replies. "A pity that I don't have a vice captain to assist me. That sort of thing is needed in a club that seems to grow exponentially every day." 

 

“I’ve always found vice-captains to be something of a bother,” Atobe says airily. “They always seem to think they have an opinion that matters.” His demeanor slips slightly, and he adds, slightly less arrogantly, “I was sorry to hear about Sanada’s parents. Please convey my condolences.”

 

Yukimura's head inclines. "That," he begins to admit, "is the reason I contacted you. I'm not sure if there is anyone else I can speak to at this point that might even care, let alone be able to do anything about… the way things are. I'm sure that you and every other competitor are _thrilled_ about it, but Ibaraki is the last place that Sanada belongs." 

 

Atobe arches a delicately sculpted eyebrow. “You wound me, Yukimura Seiichi! You think I would wish that kind of fate to befall one of my greatest competitors? Glorious me, who seeks out every dangerous opponent? Hardly!”

 

Ah. He can already feel a muscle in his jaw start to twitch from trying to continue smiling. "Then if dangerous opponents are your cup of tea--if I beat you in a tennis match, will you do me a favor? Barring that, you can keep your pride and simply do me a favor anyway." 

 

“Is there a reason this favor is couched in mystery?” Atobe asks mildly. “Have I given you some offense, that you think the only way to my good graces is through tennis? Did I not send an order of one live gardenia for every member of the Hyotei tennis team when you were in the hospital? Ask your favor, and I will respond in a matter befitting my generous, awe-inspiring self.”

 

Yukimura slowly feels his sanity slipping away, inch by inch. That's fine. It makes it a little easier to deal with Atobe on any given day, he thinks.

 

"I want Sanada back." It always sounds so simple when he says it, but it isn't at _all_. "I've tried literally everything, but the fact that he still has a living relative in Ibaraki makes it impossible to bring him back to Tokyo. Outside of killing his brother--well, does the Atobe family know any assassins?" He's only half-joking.

 

“I thought it might be something like this,” Atobe says slowly, the jester’s mask fading slightly. It’s just poor _form_ when Sanada’s parents are dead, and no Atobe will ever be accused of poor form. “I have a suggestion, if you will accept help from my most gracious self. One that doesn’t involve stepping outside the law, no matter how exciting it may be to dabble in delinquency.”

 

" _Anything_ is fine at this point," Yukimura agrees exasperatedly, feeling a tiny spark of hope for the first time in what feels like ages. That's probably premature, but… "Please, suggest away."

 

“I assume, given how distressed you seem to be about his condition,” Atobe says smoothly, “that the life your former Vice-Captain is living is hardly up to the conditions to which men of our status--well, _mine_ , anyway--are accustomed. If that is the case, surely there will be a legal loophole through which you can, so to say, snatch him safely home.” 

 

Seeing Yukimura blinking, he clarifies, “I have lawyers. Fleets of lawyers, in fact. And at least one investigator who won’t mind sitting in an unmarked vehicle close to Sanada’s place of residence for long enough to find some gaping hole in his brother’s custodial care.”

 

 _That_ definitely sounds better than anything Yukimura has heard in a long while. "That would be perfect," he agrees, maybe too-eagerly, but who even _cares_ at this point? Atobe is suddenly about a dozen times more tolerable, and maybe he wasn't _that bad_ to begin with--or so says the momentary flash of relief that someone is going to do _something_. 

 

“Very well! Just let me know his address, I’ll have him flown out by helicopter immediately.” Atobe's smile widens. “Now, what favor shall I ask of you?”

 

And there it is. Yukimura can't repress the roll of his eyes, even as he fishes out his phone to just text the address over for Atobe's future reference. "If you manage to bring Sanada home, you can ask for anything you want," he bluntly replies. 

 

Ah, god, Sanada’s situation must really be terrible. Atobe almost lets the expression falter, almost asks quietly whether it’s really so bad, but that won’t change anything. Being gloomy won’t bring him home faster. “Very well!” he declares instead. “I look forward to being served by you in the future, my friend!” That’s a dismissal, but he can’t count on Yukimura interpreting it correctly, so he jumps down from the bleachers, relieved when the jersey stays on his shoulders as he walks away.

 

Atobe is just one of the things that Yukimura has come to accept as necessary in the grand scheme of things. Many things are like that, when it comes to Sanada and tennis. 

 

Sanada edges out tennis, though, even though Yukimura has had moments where he's wondered (he's only human, after all, and when he's been literally trapped by his own body, when he's been the powerless one and Sanada couldn't keep a promise…).

 

Now, Yukimura can safely say there isn't a contest. 

 

 _Sanada or tennis_. Yukimura picks Sanada, much to his parents' chagrin, and stubbornly insists that he _will_ be going on the train not this weekend, but the next, to Ibaraki. This coming weekend, they have a game. It's just the districts, and it isn't like he needs to play in that, anyway. 

 

The team expects him to, of course, and his name is in the singles one slot as always. That doesn't mean he has to play. That doesn't mean he'll _need_ to play.

 

Except that he does, because Marui and Jackal fumble in doubles two, the upperclassmen fumble in doubles one, and the upperclassmen slotted in singles only barely scrape their way to victory. 

 

Yukimura is seething. 

 

It's just the districts. He could feign illness and weakness here and not play, and they would still go to the prefecturals all the same. The thought makes him actually feel physically ill, makes his knuckles white when he grips at his knees, and the warring factions of _must win, must be a good captain, must lead the team to victory_ and _Genichirou, Genichirou, Genichirou_ give him a migraine. 

 

Sanada would want him to play. 

 

He crushes his opponent 6-0, and curls up in the back of the train silently and sullenly for the entirety of the ride back, ignoring Niou's whispering about how he's unusually bitchy today, especially when they've won.

 

The letter he writes is filled with dozens of angrily scratched out things, because he's angry at his parents, angry at himself, and sick of apologizing by the time it's over. _I spoke to Atobe_ , is the only consolation he can offer. _He's going to fix this. He's working on it as we speak, so I'll see you soon_. 

 

Sanada needs a phone again, and soon, or Yukimura is going to lose his mind with letters being their only means of reliable communication. He's a little less angry with himself when he fishes out his allowances saved over the past couple of weeks, and includes that with the letter. _P.S. Buy a prepaid phone, I swear to god._

 

The idea of taking Yukimura’s money makes Sanada want to throw himself in the river. 

 

But the idea of being able to talk to him again, especially after he receives a very _interesting_ communication from JP Bank, is too tempting to resist. 

 

He’s been staying after tennis practice, ever since one of his teachers had mentioned in class that he used to be a kendo champion. Sanada had formally requested a match on his knees, and ever since he’d been able to practice again after school, with Nakajima-sensei’s wooden blades.

 

On his way home, he swallows his pride with an acrid, bitter taste, and buys a prepaid phone from the single electronics store in the area. It takes about ten minutes by bicycle to find a spot that gets good reception, and there’s never any doubt in his mind that he’ll call Yukimura first, fingers hitting buttons as if he’d only dialed them yesterday.

 

Yukimura picks up on the second ring. "Gen--Sanada, that has to be you--ah, one second, Marui don't throw up there, please--no, don't do that, I need to take this call, Yanagi, take over--" 

 

The clubhouse door slams behind him, and Yukimura sighs heavily as he collapses down onto a bench, leaning back with shut eyes. "I'm sorry," is all he can say at first, and he's glad, at least, that Sanada can't see him clinging to his phone like a child. "I wanted to come up this weekend."

 

“It’s fine.” It is, because even hearing Yukimura’s voice is enough to make Sanada’s chest ache in the best way he’s ever felt. He leans back against the wall of a falling-down barn, in the middle of a rice field--the only place he can get service. 

 

He lets out a long sigh, eyes closing so he can imagine Yukimura’s _here_. “Sorry to use your money. I should have sent it back.”

 

"I would have yelled at you if you had. Even the idea of it makes me want to make you run laps." Maybe he'd run them with Sanada for a change, because the idea of that sounds soothing. Yukimura knocks his head lightly back against the wall, his own eyes lidding. "I was just not going to play; then I could have come up to see you. I guess we know who the selfish one is here after all." 

 

“You shouldn’t play if you don’t need to for victory, I’ve said it before,” Sanada says, slightly cross. “You should save your strength. If you had to play, our team must have needed you.” It’s still _our team_ , no matter that he’s never set foot at that school. It will always be _theirs_ , even if he never does.

 

"Our doubles were channeling your school's," Yukimura mutters, put out about it still. "And the upperclassmen were hardly trying. Apparently, it's something of a tradition here not to bother putting one's all into the earlier tournaments, which I find ridiculous. Also," he bitterly adds, "I would have had to fake being ill to not play, which I think would have only made the problem worse. I don't want to be like Tezuka." 

 

“Tezuka doesn’t know he’s faking,” Sanada says dismissively. It’s an old debate, with him on one side and Yukimura on the other, neither of them believing Tezuka is as “injured” as he continually claims. “You don’t need to worry about visiting me. It isn’t as if we’re going to run out of weekends.” Ah, that’s not a bad idea for a poem. He starts scratching it in the dirt with the toe of one shoe.

 

"… My parents don't want me to go at _all_." Just remembering that conversation makes his throat tighten up, and Yukimura reaches over to lock the door to the clubhouse before anyone annoying (read: everyone) can walk in and interrupt. The last thing he needs is any of them saying he's going off the deep end again. "They think all the travel is too much for me, which is ridiculous. I'm fine. I've _been_ fine. _You_ know I'm fine."

 

Sanada’s toe stills in the dirt. He swallows hard at the idea of not seeing Yukimura this weekend, or the next, or at all. “I don’t want you to get sick again,” he says slowly, breathing deeply around the rising ache. “Just take care of yourself. That’s always the priority.”

 

"I'm not going to get sick again," Yukimura irritably replies. "It's--they said either no travel, or no tennis. But I had to play, and… I'm just going to sneak out." Yes. Definitely that, even though they had found out the last time, and he's not so sure how many strikes he has left until they start taping his bedroom door at night. "Or Atobe can just hurry up. I already agreed to an as of yet unnamed favor, the least he can do is be _prompt_." 

 

“Don’t do that,” Sanada says with a sigh, sagging against the shed. “I don’t want you to get in trouble. This won’t last, Seiichi.” He doesn’t want to say anything _too_ cliche, but…

 

“Just remember our house on the mountain. It will still be there.”

 

"…Mm." Yukimura drags a knee up to his chest, pointedly glaring at the locker next to his own, one he's saved specifically for Sanada. "If I'm going to get in trouble, you should at least do it with me. We can both skip school one day and meet somewhere else. I'll get your tickets for you."

 

“You don’t need to do that. I have a job after school, I’ll buy my own ticket.” Sanada tallies up numbers in his head. “If you can wait eleven days, I’ll meet you in Tokyo. We can go to the botanical gardens.”

 

Yukimura pauses. "Wait, did you actually agree to skip with me? I feel like I need to record this for posterity." 

 

“I take it back. Be delinquent on your own.”

 

"No take backs allowed, you've already agreed. Make sure you wear my headband, you look like a real delinquent then."

 

“Wear my hat. I miss it.”

 

Yukimura hums in agreement. "You _would_. If it makes you feel better, it sleeps with me every night, in my pillowcase. My pillow smells like you." 

 

“I wish my pillow smelled like you,” Sanada admits quietly, looking around just to make sure no one has entered the rice field recently. “And not from your headband. I want your head on my pillow.”

 

"I want to use you as a pillow." Sanada is a good one, and Yukimura can easily recall every train ride where he's dozed off onto Sanada's shoulder, and every other occasion, for that matter, wherein Sanada's chest has become a convenient resting place. "I'm sorry that I'm not as good at being a pillow, but you can still use me as one, too."

 

“You’re better than you think. Remember how many times I’ve fallen asleep on you.” More times than Sanada really understands, to be honest. Yukimura is all bones and angles, and yet Sanada still manages to wind up snoozing on his belly or hip or shoulder at least once a week….or at least he had. Once, he’d even drooled, to his immense consternation.

 

"At least you don't whine about me being bony as much anymore," Yukimura teases, slowly flopping to the side on the bench. Ah, well. It's fine and understandable if he curls up like a teenage _girl_ around his phone right now, isn't it? "Maybe you're just used to it. You're still better because you're _warm_ , though." 

 

“You aren’t so bony anymore.” Sanada hesitates, then sinks down to the ground in a crouch, admitting on a reluctant exhale, “And I’m so happy to see you that I don’t care if you’re made of knives and frozen glass.”

 

"I'm glad I'm _not_ made of that sort of thing, though," Yukimura sniffs. "Though I've been told lately that I'm made of meanness and spite. Is that still okay?" 

 

“It’s all okay.” Sanada wishes his voice didn’t sound quite so broken all of a sudden.

 

Yukimura wonders about breaking physics, and time, and space, and how that all applies to reaching through phones to touch someone. "Are you going to place high enough in your district tournament to make it to prefecturals?" 

 

“Yes. No matter what I have to do. The singles players are good enough. It’ll be fine. I think the other district teams are afraid of me, which is for the best.” Sanada closes his eyes, leaning against the phone as if that will _help_.

 

"Definitely for the best. You can be very imposing when you want to be." Yukimura exhales a long sigh, cradling his phone against his ear. "I should actually go and run practice like a captain,"  he quietly admits, "but it's not anywhere near as enjoyable without you here. I'm sorry that you had to do the same without me, before." 

 

“It’s fine. I just wanted you to get better.” At least this time, Yukimura’s safe. At least he doesn’t have to wonder this time if Yukimura’s going to keel over at any given time, or if he’ll go to the hospital one day and find nothing but an empty, made-up bed. “Slap them around for me for losing. Go on.”

 

"We should save your minutes for later, anyway." Yukimura can hear a few of them starting to gather around the clubhouse, anyway, obviously wanting to hear _who the captain could possibly be talking to_ and ugh, he really might slap them around in Sanada's absence at this rate. "Don't forget about being a delinquent with me later."

 

Sanada starts to snap that he’s never in his life broken a promise even made in passing, but he can’t, now. Not after losing to Seigaku. That, probably, is what makes him the angriest of anything. “I won’t forget.” 

 

And then it’s awkward, because how does he usually hang up on Yukimura? He doesn’t remember. “Uh, have a good...practice.”

 

"Mmhmm." And to end on a good note for both of them--"I'll have your hat to keep me company tonight."


	4. Chapter 4

The weekend rolls around, and Yukimura needs a distraction to remember that he can't escape to Ibaraki and _Sanada_.

 

First on his list: hearing from Kirihara about Seigaku's apparent defeat in the district preliminaries to Fudoumine, which brought about a fit of giggles that simply wouldn't go away. _Be a good sport_ , he tells himself, because he has to set a good example for Kirihara as Rikkaidai's new captain. The hilarious irony of it all is just so _good_ , though, that Yukimura can't _help_ but laugh. 

 

(A pity, really, that they're in high school and Seigaku is just a middle school, because oh, he'd love to see them somehow match up against Sanada's school for an 'intense' doubles stand off.) 

 

That distraction lasts for a little while, as Kirihara rambles off details for ages, and when Yukimura finally gets him off of that topic, an easy rally between the two of them is refreshing. Kirihara's personality certainly hasn't changed very much, which in a way, is for the best. He's _easy_ to deal with still no matter his antics, unlike the snippy, irritating upperclassmen that seem to think he's unfit for captaincy duties, and why won't he pick a vice captain already?

 

Yukimura thinks they should practice more and worry less about when (which is never) he's going to put a label on their uniforms. 

 

Home again, and he showers, collapsing into bed naked afterwards before anyone can bother him (god bless locks that keep out little sisters), and he shoves his face down into the pillow that contains Sanada's hat. The scent of him has faded a little bit over the weeks, but it's still _enough_ , and Yukimura sighs deeply, making a one-handed grab for his phone, shoving his face down into the pillow again even as he dials. 

 

Only one person has the number to his phone. That basic fact is the reason Sanada has almost crashed his bicycle at the sound of the ring, has run out of the shower entirely naked, and has abandoned an easy ball lobbed at him to dive for his bag. It doesn’t matter, because that sound means _Yukimura is calling._

 

He’s not playing tennis now, but bedding down for sleep, leaving the seiza he sits in for meditation when the sound shocks him back awake. He grabs the phone from its hiding place in his school bags, flipping it open hastily and trying not to sound too over-excited. “Good evening.”

 

"Eve~ning," Yukimura hums, rolling his face out of the pillow in order to properly talk. Sanada always sounds a little out of breath when he answers the phone, and Yukimura likes imagining him being terribly excited about receiving each and every phone call. "I heard something funny today. Seigaku lost to Fudoumine." 

 

Sanada can’t stifle the laugh that comes out at that. “Really? Good. Maybe that’ll teach the brat some humility.” He doubts it. He doubts anything ever will.

 

He stretches out on his futon, hearing the slight slurring of Yukimura’s usually immaculate diction. “Are you….lying down? With your cheek against the pillow?”

 

"Yep. It's better to call you when I can smell you," Yukimura logically answers, and breaths deep for good measure, shutting his eyes. "When we meet in Tokyo next week, I might try to sneak you home with me for a few hours."

 

Sanada groans, rolling over onto his back, staring at the high white ceiling and imagining Yukimura close to him, Yukimura’s bedroom, that he’d seen before but never….never like _this_. Slowly, he reaches for his discarded uniform, pulling Yukimura’s headband out of the pocket and bringing it to his face. “I can smell you, too,” he rasps, eyes sliding shut. His cock starts to fill and swell as he imagines Yukimura stretched out, giving him quiet commands in that gentle, precise voice.

 

'Might' turns to a _definitely need to, why aren't you here right now?_ Yukimura shivers at the edge to Sanada's voice, and he paws his way into his pillow, dragging out Sanada's hat to _completely_ bury his face into it. One deep breath of him, and his cock aches. "I'm already really hard," he admits with a low, breathless laugh. "If you were here, I'd make you do something about it."

 

Sanada’s breath catches in his throat, and he shifts, palming himself slowly through his thin cotton pajamas. He can imagine Yukimura so well, stretched out on his bed, hard and aching between his legs. “Yeah? Like what?”

 

"Have you ever wanted to taste it?" Ah, it probably isn't fair how that makes heat pool even hotter in his groin, and Yukimura twists around onto his belly, lazily pressing his cock down into the comforter. "The last time I visited you, and you got on your knees… I almost thought you were going to." 

 

Sanada squeezes his eyes shut, fingers wriggling under his pajamas to curl around his cock, slowly pumping it from base to tip. He can already feel a little bead of moisture at the tip, and thinks about the way Yukimura’s had been leaking in his hand. “Didn’t think of it,” he admits, voice rough, breathy. “You should have told me to. I’d have done it.”

 

Yukimura groans at that, his eyes squeezing shut as he imagines the way Sanada's tongue would have felt, hot and slick and wet, and he wriggles a hand down, fingers squeezing slowly around the base of his cock. Slow, he dimly tells himself, or this _isn't_ going to last. Not with Sanada's voice in his ear and the smell of him thick in his nose, with his cock already this hard. "Didn't think about it," he murmurs. "You already made me so hard, I couldn't think of anything. Next time," he promises with a ragged breath, lurching up into the slide of his palm, "you can put your mouth on it. I want to taste yours, too." 

 

The thought of Yukimura’s mouth on him almost makes Sanada’s vision white out. He moves his hand down, squeezing his balls slowly to keep it from being over too soon, imagining it’s Yukimura’s hand instead. For some reason, the idea of Yukimura telling him not to come too soon, squeezing him and giving him a precise little order, just makes him harder. “Seiichi,” he groans, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, as his free hand runs up and down his torso, pretending it’s Yukimura’s. “Next time, anything you want--”

 

It's only taken those couple of times before to memorize the way Sanada's breath catches when he's _close,_ and that makes Yukimura's own cock twitch in his grasp, fingers slick and sticky as he squeezes and strokes. "Genichirou--" The length of his name is drawn out on a breathy, broken sigh, and Yukimura fumbles to shove the phone into a good place so he can still talk and hear and fuck into his own hand and maybe scratch at his own nipples, too. "L..let me come first--if you were on your knees, I'd-- _ah_ …definitely come on your face--"

 

Sanada has to wrench his hand away for a second, gulping for air to make sure he doesn’t come immediately. “I just--” He swallows hard, nodding, even though he knows Yukimura can’t see him. “Do it,” he says breathlessly, less a command and more a broken, needy plea. “I--I want you to, Seiichi--”

 

He _loves_ it when Yukimura says his name like this, undone and _thinking about him_. He wonders for a vague, fleeting second if Yukimura’s ever thought of anyone else like this. For him, since the very first time, it’s always been Yukimura, Yukimura’s hair, Yukimura’s hands, Yukimura’s smile, Yukimura’s smell.

 

Yukimura isn't sure what's more obscene--the moments when Sanada can actually talk, all rough around the edges and needy, or when he's reduced to nothing but heavy, ragged breaths instead. _Both are good_ , he dazedly thinks, his own voice nothing but broken, mindless panting after awhile, with Sanada's name sort of rasped out as a mindless afterthought when he comes, face stuffed down into Sanada's hat as he thrusts hard into his own fist. 

 

"God," Yukimura gasps out, mind still reeling and he swears he can almost feel Sanada's mouth against his own, his teeth against his skin, the solid, unyielding strength of him that makes him shudder down to his toes. "You'd be a _mess_ , Genichirou, and it would be all my fault--"

 

Sanada has never liked the idea of being a mess--but he definitely does now.

 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, finally letting himself touch his cock again, curling his hand around it as he arches up, nose buried in Yukimura’s headband. “Ah--Seiichi, you’d--”

 

He loses the thread of what he was saying, gasping for breath instead, and this feels closer to the orgasms he’s had with Yukimura than to any time he’s touched himself before. “Just--can I?”

 

He’s not sure why he’s asking.

 

Yukimura's cock twitches again already--too soon, too early, and that makes him twist and groan into the sheets. "Yeah," he breathes, biting his lip as he imagines how _hard_ Sanada must be, how he's probably dripping over his own fist right now and the idea of wriggling down between his legs and really tasting him makes his mouth water. "Go ahead and come, you've been good." 

 

Sanada lets out a hoarse shout, totally unready for how that shoots straight to his cock, making his body go tight as a bow in a single, almost-painful arc. He spills over his hand, shuddering and gasping, unable not to think about Yukimura stroking delicate fingers through his hair, praising him like that, maybe even while Sanada’s on his knees for him like they’d said earlier. “A-ahh,” he gasps, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he milks himself. “God, Seiichi….”

 

"God," Yukimura agrees with a hitching, breathless laugh, slowly, bonelessly rolling onto his back and covering half of his face with Sanada's hat. "Mnnn…I guess I should keep telling you that you're a 'good boy' in person, too." 

 

Sanada’s cock gives a last twitch, and he groans in protest. “Ah, god--that’s definitely not--” He trails off, mumbling against the headband. “Just be here in person, that’s all I need.”

 

"Sounds like your dick needs other things," Yukimura mildly notes. "I'm okay with that." 

 

“It wants a lot of things,” Sanada says, vaguely grumpy. “It doesn’t get a vote.”

 

"But I like when it votes. It can make a list, I'll make sure to go through every item thoroughly." 

 

“It doesn’t make lists,” Sanada growls, amused in spite of himself. “It just says yes.”

 

"I like that, too." Yukimura grins, wriggling back into the bedspread. "Mine can make a list instead, then, though it mostly consists of 'yes', too." 

 

“Do we really need a list?” Sanada asks plaintively. “No matter how many things you say, I’m pretty sure I’ll say yes. You have good ideas.”

 

"Mm, as long as you're sure. It can just be a mental list, then." Yukimura slowly stuffs the hat back into his pillowcase. "If I sneak you into my house, we're definitely going to be in my bed for awhile." 

 

“Stop it, your family will be home. Someone’s always at your house.” The idea of being _heard_ makes Sanada want to curl up under his futon, especially since Yukimura seems intent on making him make the most obscene of noises.

 

"Then we'll find a place where no one can hear us," Yukimura hums. "We can sneak back in through the garden, roll around in the grass…"

 

“You’ll make noise,” Sanada insists, and his face flames for even _suggesting_ it, but… “I guess we could….go to a love hotel.”

 

"Ooh, lewd. Genichirou, you have a dirtier mind than I thought, and I already thought it was pretty bad." 

 

“I just don’t want to be overheard!” Sanada might just die. It’s not too late to commit suicide and preserve his honor. “Isn’t it more lewd to let someone hear? What if your family finds out?”

 

Yukimura rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "You can always gag me. Or I could gag you. _I'm_ the one with the naturally quiet voice, unlike someone I know." 

 

“H-how is that less lewd than going to a love hotel?” Sanada demands, starting to sweat.

 

"I just thought it would be more romantic to actually enjoy one another in the privacy of my bedroom, or out in the gardens I've worked so hard on…"

 

Sanada’s head thunks back against the pillow, essentially the sound of himself giving up. “Whatever you want, Captain.”

 

Unfortunately, the whole 'sneaking Sanada into his house' thing is a bust. 

 

Normally, his parents would be gone for at least an hour, but his little sister picks that particular day to come down with a cold, and is left coughing and wheezing in bed that morning when Yukimura leaves to 'go to school.' He's already cross by the time he reaches the train station, and moodily drinks his canned coffee for the next hour, waiting for his train. 

 

He doesn't get off at his usual stop, but the one after it, and settles in to wait for Sanada's train after that, neatly cross-legged on a bench. Thank god none of the team comes through this way; Yukimura doesn't want to listen to their prodding about what _activities_ he has planned for the rare day he actually skips (it isn't like his answer is any more specific than _Sanada_ , anyway).

 

Sanada’s train ride is...eventful, to say the least. He gets through it with a modicum of grace, generously engaging in conversation with an old toothless man about the state of  the crops this year. The man seems delighted by how much he knows, which Sanada counts as a win given that all he can think is _Yukimura, Yukimura, Yukimura_ …

 

The train doors are barely open before he’s out, barely restraining himself from dropping his tennis bag to the floor and scooping Yukimura into his arms. Instead, he bows briefly, a shadow of a smile on his face, and says quietly, “Captain.”

 

Yukimura hops up to his feet, sets his bag down, and settles for hugging Sanada first this time, with both of his arms slung about his neck for a tight squeeze. "My ever-loyal second-in-command," Yukimura teases in greeting, rocking back onto his heels to peer up at him. "You look good."

 

Sanada returns the hug swiftly, strongly, swallowing hard. “So do you. You always do.” Now that he can see, can _smell_ Yukimura, he he can’t quite resist nuzzling his face into the other man’s hair. Not wanting to sound too eager is fine, but Sanada has no idea how long he’ll be able to say. In Yukimura’s ear, he says quietly, “Where are we going?”

 

At that, Yukimura smiles. "Well," he hedges, carefully pulling back and resting his hands against Sanada's chest, "my sister decided to pick today to be sick, so there's no way we can be alone at my house…instead, I thought of another good place that I know you wanted to see anyway." 

 

Sanada closes his mouth, setting his jaw. “Love hotel?” It’s not as bad as it could be, he knows. In the country, most people just use them for a place to get out of the house and be alone when it’s full of parents and grandparents. In the city….

 

Well. Hotel staff wash the sheets, he’s sure.

 

Yukimura decides it's just fine to pinch one of Sanada's nipples through his shirt. "As if. Those places are gross, and definitely not my idea of a romantic date. Anyway, wouldn't it be better if you actually got to _see_ the clubhouse at your soon-to-be school, Vice-Captain Sanada?" 

 

Sanada wants to kick himself. “I didn’t mean to be obscene,” he mutters, slapping Yukimura’s hand away. “Of course I want to see the tennis courts.” He lifts Yukimura’s bag without thinking, slinging both of them over one shoulder. He’s not, he tells himself, disappointed that he won’t be going to somewhere they can spend private time together. He’s _not_. Any time he can spend with Yukimura is good enough.

 

Yukimura neglects to mention that during normal school hours, prior and after lunch, the clubhouse is deserted. Even if it wasn't, _he_ is the one with the keys. 

 

"It's a right of passage, apparently, to sneak onto the grounds at night and play a match without the lights on," Yukimura mildly informs him once they reach the--no, _their_ high school, or at least it will be at some point in the near future. "I've already done it once. Marui hates hopping the fence. I think it's sort of preparation for skipping class in the future." With that in mind, it's shockingly easy to circle around to the tennis courts, hauling himself over the fence, and cheerfully leading the way to the clubhouse in question. 

 

No one in sight. That's a good start. 

 

"Here we go," he hums, unlocking the door and prodding Sanada inside. "I'm even saving a locker just for you. All the upperclassmen get so snippy about it. I think they should shut up and practice more." 

 

“I think that about most people,” Sanada allows. The sight of the state-of-the-art facilities makes him clench his fists, thinking about how he _should be here_ , thinking about how he _should be at Yukimura’s side_. “This is….a _good_ tennis clubhouse.” A far cry from the shed covered in dust and cobwebs at his own school, that’s for sure.

 

"Mm. It's going to be better, when it has trophies that we've brought into it," Yukimura agrees. His eyes lid, and he steps forward, curling his fingers into Sanada's shirt collar to tug him closer. "You're _going_ to be here with me," he insists, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of Sanada's mouth. "One way or another, I'm going to make it happen." 

 

Sanada’s eyes slide shut, and he risks one last look around at the silent, empty area before he lets his hands rest on Yukimura’s waist, pulling him close and kissing him soundly. “I wanted to do that on the train platform,” he breathes, resting his forehead against Yukimura’s.

 

"Then you should have." Yukimura's hands slide up and around the back of Sanada's neck as he leans up to kiss him back again, briefly nuzzling their noses together. The splay of Sanada's hands, strong and broad and long-fingered over his hips, makes him shiver, and that all goes straight to his groin in an instant. "Another thing," he notes with a smile, "this place is usually empty for a couple of hours around now." 

 

“Good,” Sanada remarks, somewhat absently, but he can surely be forgiven for being a little absent when Yukimura is so _lithe_. “I don’t want anyone to interrupt us when we play.”

 

Yukimura prides himself on keeping a straight face. "Uh huh. Different kind of _play_ ," he murmurs, tilting his head to set his teeth to the lobe of one ear. "If nothing else, at least this place is _clean_ …" 

 

Sanada swallows, hard. “Oh,” he manages, the tips of his ears turning slowly red. “But...there’s no bed.”

 

"We haven't done much of anything in bed so far, have we?" Yukimura logically points out. He stretches upward, deliberately leaning his weight against Sanada as he does to make _sure_ the hard line of his cock rubs against his hip, and sighs, low and hot and breathy, as he bites again at the curve of Sanada's ear. "We don't need a bed to make this a proper throne room, do we, Genichirou?" 

 

A low groan makes its way out of Sanada’s throat, and he shakes his head semi-frantically. “This is fine,” he gasps out, fingers tightening on Yukimura’s waist. “It’s--fine.” 

 

A sudden flicker of unease gets through the spike of lust, and he grunts at himself, trying to think of something besides how hard and hot Yukimura is against him. “It’s--shouldn’t--the first time, shouldn’t it be a bed, don’t you think?”

 

"Ideally." But that hope got dashed by his little sister, and the idea of a love hotel makes him irritable. "If it isn't going to be a bed, though, it should at least be somewhere special," Yukimura points out, stepping forward with ease to urge Sanada _back_ , until the backs of his knees align with one of the room's benches. "I'll even throw my jacket down for you, like a real gentleman." He can't help but tease still, just a _little_ bit. 

 

That should probably piss Sanada off. It probably shouldn’t make his cock quite so hard.

 

He groans, falling back onto the bench when his knees hit it, looking up at Yukimura with something like devotion in his eyes, not that that should surprise anyone. If there’s anyone in the world he’s still devoted to, it’s definitely Yukimura. “This is special. This place will be ours.”

 

Yukimura nods in the two seconds it takes for him to follow after Sanada, sliding a knee up between his legs as he leans up to kiss him, fast and hard and needy. "It already is ours," he breathes, pawing a hand down Sanada's belly, unbuttoning his shirt to actually get to _skin_ , and his nails claw over the lean muscle there as he sucks along the line of Sanada's jaw. "Just have to drag you back down here, and _keep_ you here. Until then, I'm just saving the best for you." 

 

Sanada has a feeling he’s going to have marks in the morning. He has another feeling that he doesn’t care.

 

He lurches up into Yukimura’s touch, hissing out a breath through his teeth. “You--hold it for me,” he manages somehow, tugging at the bottom of Yukimura’s shirt to free it from his pants, oddly entranced by the warmth of it, snuggled up against Yukimura’s body heat for so long. “Save my place.” That’s about all he can think when Yukimura’s kissing him like that, leaning against him like that, as if he’ll die if he doesn’t get more of Sanada, which, given how Sanada wants to give him literally everything he wants, is a little confusing.

 

A ragged, breathless laugh escapes Yukimura's throat at that, and he bites again, sucking on a different spot with his eyes fluttering shut. "There's no one else, so it's all yours," he murmurs, his voice hitching, catching in his throat when he rubs his cock slowly down against Sanada, groaning lowly at how he can feel how hard Sanada is, too. "God, Genichirou," he pants out quietly, dragging his hand further south to palm Sanada through his pants. It's hard to remember when they're both like this and it already feels so _good_ that he has something else in mind this time--especially when it wouldn't take _much_ just to grind on Sanada until he comes. "You always feel so good."

 

Sanada’s hand comes up Yukimura’s back, careful, _careful_ not to press too hard where he knows there’s a scar. His hand comes up to tangle in Yukimura’s hair, pulling him closer, breath coming in hot, swift pants. 

 

The teeth and tongue on his neck are obscene somehow, the feeling going straight to his cock as his hips roll slowly forward. He’s so much closer than he wants to be, which makes it a good thing that he’s been _practicing_.

 

A deep breath, and he remembers the stillness, the patience. He’s practiced for long hours, sitting in seiza, deliberately thinking of Yukimura and willing his erection _down_ , after that first time when he’d shamed himself by coming on the other man’s school uniform.

 

Yukimura rumbles against Sanada's throat, biting at the swell of his Adam's apple as he fumbles with the fastenings of Sanada's pants, his fingertips deliberately just _barely_ grazing over his cock. No matter how much he wants to grab and touch, it's probably for the best that he doesn't, not when they're so wound up already, not when he wants to do a lot more than just _grab_ this time. "Take your clothes off," Yukimura breathes, smiling as he pulls back. "I've gotta grab something out of my bag." 

 

Even the ghost of a touch from Yukimura’s finger makes Sanada immediately reconsider just how much he’s in in control of his body. He takes a deep breath, nodding as he neatly folds his jacket, then his shirt and tie, followed (a bit more hesitantly) by his pants and underwear, all precisely stacked. It’s cold, and he feels sort of stupid and obscene, standing naked in a clubhouse. “What could you need?” he demands, uncomfortably crossing his arms in front of his chest, trying not to look self-conscious.

 

Yukimura rather enjoys throwing his own jacket into Sanada's face, followed by his shirt, messily balled up, and a box of condoms after that. "That," he answers without batting an eye, wriggling his way out of his own pants. "And this." He doesn't throw the little bottle of lube, at least. Sanada already looks so twitchy that he might actually fall over if he throws too many things. "Now lay my jacket down like I said earlier. It's not my _bed_ , but, well, it's close _enough_ …"

 

Sanada glares at Yukimura for the mess, but for once, he doesn’t actually scold. He’s a little too fascinated by the bottle and package, and he obeys, dumping Yukimura’s clothes (they’re going to crease, they’re going to crumple, they’re going to look _really untidy_ ) on top of his. He lays the jacket down, eyes locked on every plane of Yukimura’s body. 

 

Sanada isn’t stupid. He’d been taken off guard, that Yukimura would want to do something like that, but he hasn’t exactly been idle. He’s been studying, and now he crouches a little awkwardly on the jacket. “How do you….want to?” He should probably feel more embarrassed, but all he feels is _want_. 

 

And a little cold.

 

The cold part is a quick fix. Yukimura, probably even more chilled than Sanada, immediately slides close again, nuzzling up into the heat of Sanada's body as he mouths a soft, wet kiss to the curve of one shoulder. That's all it really takes to make a spark of new heat twist down his spine, fresh and alive and making him shiver from what definitely _isn't_ the cold. "I think it's supposed to be easier, at first, if you're on your stomach." He also likes the idea of having Sanada's back to kiss and touch, with every broad muscle right underneath his fingertips, and Yukimura's breath quickens as he leans up, a somewhat sloppy, eager kiss pressed to Sanada's lips. "You don't mind, do you?"

 

Sanada shakes his head in a quick, decisive negative--no, he doesn’t mind. “Not as long as it’s you.”

 

He stretches out, lithe and long and lean, bracing his weight on his elbows as he twists around to look back at Yukimura. He’d softened a bit in the wait, but rubbing against Yukimura’s jacket, with Yukimura behind him, quickly brings him back.

 

"… That's something straight out of a wet dream," Yukimura admits on a rather ragged breath, trying to laugh but damn it, he's really not kidding and he sort of has to shut his eyes for a moment to make the hard, hot thrum of blood going straight to his dick _calm down_. 

 

It works. 

 

Mostly. 

 

For all his constant teasing of Sanada, this must be some sort of karma back to haunt him.

 

Right--not worrying about the condom just yet, lube first, messy and slick on his fingers, and he bends down to mouth a kiss to Sanada's shoulder when those slippery fingers drag over his hole. "I've been thinking about this since we last saw each other," he murmurs, and ah, god, just carefully pressing and wriggling one finger in makes him swallow hard. 

 

Sanada shudders, head tipping forward to rest his forehead against the cool ground. His hands scrabble at the ground, looking for some purchase, some handhold, something to grab on to when everything feels so ridiculously good. “S-so have I,” he admits. Ever since Yukimura had grabbed his ass and whispered exactly what he wanted to do, he’d thought about it, fantasized about it at night, when Hiroto was at a snack bar and he had the apartment to himself. 

 

His thighs spread involuntarily as he shifts his knees a few inches apart, swallowing hard. “Feels better...when you do it, though…”

 

Oh. 

 

_Oh._

 

Yukimura swears he can _hear_ the way his pulse skyrockets, can hear the conscious decision to bite the back of Sanada's neck when his wrist twists a little and his finger slides in deep to the second knuckle, and the way it feels to let his cock slide against Sanada's thigh should probably be a _crime_. "You tried this yourself?" He feels no shame in sounding so _pleased_ about that, so _excited_. 

 

“Didn’t want to be unprepared,” Sanada says with a grunt, sucking in a breath when Yukimura _presses_ like that. “Nnhhh…I wanted to make sure...I liked it.”

 

He had, obviously. He’d loved it, tingled with the idea of Yukimura doing it to him, anticipated it with increasing hunger, no matter how uncomfortable it had been at that position.

 

This is better, a lot better, because it isn’t his own fingers, it’s Yukimura’s, and he has no idea which way they’ll move, how they’ll touch, and they go deeper besides.

 

Sanada needs to stop making those noises--or saying things that just keep going straight to his cock. If he doesn't stop, Yukimura swears he's going to lose his mind. Is that what Sanada feels like all the time around him? Probably. He's okay with that.

 

He bites Sanada's neck again for good measure, drawing it out with a long suck, and his hand pulls back just enough to slide a second finger in, pressing in long and slick and deep before stroking, because Sanada _really_ does seem to like that. "Don't know how long I'm going to be able to last inside of you," he half-apologizes, half-sort of groans, because just _saying_ that he's going to be in Sanada makes everything twitch and shiver. "I just--you _already_ feel perfect." 

 

It's a kiss, not a bite to Sanada's neck this time, and Yukimura pulls his hand away with an unsteady exhale, wiping his hand on his jacket. Condoms aren't that easy to deal with when he's this eager, and his patience is pretty thin already, and he gives up a second later, swallowing hard when he drags a lube-slick hand down his own cock as well. His mind effectively clicks off the second he gets to rub his cock against the cleft of Sanada's ass, and pressing inside that first _inch_ makes Yukimura forget how to breathe, his hands tight enough to bruise on Sanada's hips when he sinks inside. 

 

Sanada is privately certain this is the best idea Yukimura’s ever had.

 

He can’t quite bring himself to say that, not when all he can manage is a low, broken moan that sounds like it’s coming from someone else. He lurches forward on the floor for a second, reacting to his body’s instinctive reaction to _get away from the thing going into me_ , but that passes after a second.

 

Yukimura enters him slowly, thoroughly, and all Sanada feels is stretched and pulled and stuffed _full_. He lets out a low whine, brow furrowing as he tries to figure out how to make his body _cooperate_ \--

 

But then again, it doesn’t seem to matter. Yukimura is sinking slowly into him, _inside him_ , and that’s the most intimate violation Sanada can possibly imagine. It makes him shudder and twitch, wanting more, rolling his hips urgently back as he whispers nonsense words into the floor, into Yukimura’s jacket.

 

Ah, god, he's definitely not going to last, not when Sanada is doing all of _that_.

 

Yukimura huffs out a hot, wet breath between Sanada's bunching shoulder blades, his fingers squeezing tight about the leanness of his waist as he scoots his knees forward for more leverage, and _shoves_. It's not that hard or anything, but it's definitely enough to make him sink all the way in, and he gasps raggedly, vision blurring at the edges at how tight and _hot_ Sanada is around his cock. "Really, _really_ good," he mindlessly praises, certain it all sounds more like breathy nonsense than anything, but that's fine when all he can do is roll his hips forward long and deep, his hands pawing their way up Sanada's sides to scratch and pull needily, his face nuzzling into the sweat-slick skin of Sanada's back. "God, _Genichirou_ \--"

 

Sanada’s eyes roll back into his head. He loses what little composure he’d had left, twisting and arching his back to grab at Yukimura’s hair, forgoing the ability to rut back against him for the ability to _kiss him senseless_. 

 

He fumbles, but that’s to be expected when he needs so badly. He groans, and that’s fine, because Yukimura is as hard as he is. He can _feel_ how hard Yukimura is, thick and swollen inside of him, and the thought just makes him let out a strangled groan. 

 

It’s too fully, and he’s cramping a little, sucking in harsh breaths and clawing at the floor as he drags Yukimura in for a furious kiss, mumbling, “ _Seiichi_ ,” against his lips.

 

Yukimura lurches up, bracing a hand on the floor, his own eyes fluttering, swearing they're _crossing_ from how deep he can thrust at this angle, and with Sanada's mouth against his own, it's far, _far_ too much. He can taste him, feel every breath of air that Sanada steals from his own lungs between kisses, feel the ragged edge to it all caused by _him_ when he shoves in deep and he'd be a liar to say he didn't like the way he can make Sanada's hands fumble and falter.

 

"Genichirou," is nearly all he can mindlessly pant out, sucking Sanada's lower lip into his own mouth. "S-sorry--you're--" _All kinds of perfect and I can't help myself and you're just not fair_. It's the last thought Yukimura really manages before he's lost, his breath caught up in his chest as he shoves in deep and claws red lines along Sanada's hips to pull him _back_ when he comes, every muscle drawn tight and trembling. 

 

Sanada shakes his head-- _don’t apologize, it’s fine_ \--and collapses down, pressing his cheek against the ground that suddenly seems a lot less imposingly cold and a lot more gently cool. He gasps for breath, shaken to the core by the feeling of Yukimura _finishing inside him._

 

He’s achingly full, and his cock rubs against Yukimura’s jacket almost frantically with every twitch of his hips. It’s hard enough to breathe without shivering when he can feel Yukimura’s cock, his slick seed inside of him. It’s harder still when he still wants _more_ , and he’s still as hard as he’s ever been. He rubs forward along the ground again, something like a strangled groan coming out of his throat. “Please,” he begs, tilting his head to show his capitulation to his friend, his love, his _Captain_.

 

Yukimura shoves aside that feeling of _bonelessness_ that always comes after an orgasm in favor of pulling out, then pawing and tugging at Sanada until he has him on his back in an instant. He wriggles down, eyes flicking up to see Sanada's face when his mouth sets to the hard, dripping line of Sanada's cock, tongue dragging a hot, wet stripe over the head of him as his fingers squeeze and stroke. _Anything you want_ , is what he'd like to say, but _better_ is being able to taste Sanada, being able to bring him over the edge, just as thoroughly lost as he _still_ is. 

 

Sanada’s pretty sure he’s simply not equipped for this.

 

His mind shorts out in cheerful defiance of all his patience training, the second he feels Yukimura’s tongue. Sanada covers his eyes, stunned at the violence of his orgasm and shocked, unable even to process the sight of Yukimura’s mouth on his cock. 

 

He lurches up, a wordless shout coming from his lips, before collapsing back into a twitching pile of limbs, gasping for air when his vision stops working. This doesn’t feel like the yips he’s had when playing Yukimura before, but something else, something far more powerful, and it rips through his body like electricity, leaving him shocked and useless in a puddle on the floor. “Sei...i...chi….”

 

That's success if Yukimura's ever seen or heard it. 

 

The taste is surprisingly less bitter on his tongue than he'd imagined, mostly just sort of musky and masculine and it _definitely_ tastes like Sanada, if Sanada can taste like something in particular. Yukimura hums a little dazedly, a little thoughtfully as he licks his lips clean and swipes a finger over the mess on Sanada's belly for good measure to suck it clean after the fact. "Mmn," he happily offers, managing to scoot up a few inches before giving up, his head coming to rest somewhere in the vicinity of Sanada's chest as he flops down, shivering and breathing heavily. 

 

Sanada has just enough control over his own body to let his head flop to the side, thunking gently against Yukimura’s. “You,” he says, a little dazedly, “were right. And you have good ideas. And clubhouse.”

 

"It's our clubhouse," Yukimura breezily corrects him, tilting his head up to nudge his face against Sanada's cheek. "We just claimed it properly." 

 

“I don’t think,” Sanada says slowly, “that any part of that was _proper_.”

 

Yukimura decides to deliberately misinterpret that. "We should do it again, then. Practice makes perfect." 

 

Sanada blinks slowly, then nods. “I approve of perfection.”

 

"Good answer, this is why you're my vice captain. Next time, though," Yukimura says with a laugh, giving Sanada's hip a pinch, " _you_ can do the work. My legs still feel like jelly."

 

“That’s fine.” Sanada nods, a little relived at that admission. He hadn’t _thought_ it was a one-way street, and would probably have protested, but it’s better this way anyway. “I don’t want to be the only one limping.”

 

"That would be boring." Though Yukimura is really looking forward to seeing Sanada hobble around. "Hell, we can always jan-ken on it. Except next time, next time is already decided."

 

“That sounds fair.” And democratic, in a way. Sanada relaxes back to the floor, wincing a little when something starts dripping. “Just to warn you, it feels...strange, after. Messy, ugh.”

 

"Really? Sounds fun." Yukimura tilts his head up, slowly grinning at what he sees. "Your _neck_ ," he says gleefully, "looks like a disaster zone."

 

Sanada’s hand flies to his neck. “I--what? What does it look like? Did you--you _bit_ it!”

 

"They're all over the back of it, too, I bet," Yukimura says, looking intensely proud of himself. "I wonder how long those'll last."

 

“I’ll cover them with my school uniform,” Sanada grumbles, a little startled by how vividly he can feel the bruises already. “Did you do that on purpose? So I’d wear your mark?”

 

"Mmm, well, It was kind of a spur of the moment thing, but I'll keep that in mind for next time." Yukimura beams up at him, tiptoeing his fingers up the inside of Sanada's thigh. "You've already got enough of my mark _elsewhere_ , so…"

 

“Rude,” Sanada grumbles, flicking Yukimura directly in the middle of the forehead. “If you want me to treat you well, you should show me the same.”

 

Yukimura makes a half-hearted lunge for Sanada's hand, snapping his teeth. "But I'm pretty sure I'd like it no matter how you treated me."

 

“You’re impossible.” Sanada is sure he should sound more upset about it. He probably also shouldn’t follow the statement with a kiss.

 

"But you like it. See, we're the same," Yukimura says with a smile as he kisses back.

 

“Mmphm.” Not a denial.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Atobe likes good news.

 

He likes delivering good news, telling people good news, boasting and bragging about good news.

 

Atobe does _not_ like giving bad news. It’s tasteless. And it makes him angry.

 

He shows up to the designated meeting spot in something that would be a huff if he hadn’t pulled it off with such _style_. As it is, ascot tucked in perfectly, jacket secured (without _looking_ like it’s secured, that’s the trick) at a jaunty angle, he perches somewhat aggressively on the chair outside his favorite coffee cafe. “Yukimura,” he calls, slightly tight-voiced--a considerable step down from his usual lilting purr, but probably not enough to be noticed. “I have _news_.” Not good news, which would make his voice more lilting still, letting Yukimura bask in the beauty of it.

 

It doesn't sound like good news.

 

Yukimura has a penchant for reading people, and Atobe is an open book as far as people go. That's for the best, when it comes to their arrangement and situation. It isn't that he distrusts Atobe; it's more that he simply wants to know _exactly_ what is going on…although right now, he isn't sure he wants to hear it at all. 

 

Yukimura exhales a long, tired breath, dropping down into the chair across from Atobe. "Really. Do tell." It's been far too long since he's seen Sanada already (exactly 13 days and 5 hours and 27 minutes and yes, he keeps tally on the off-chance Sanada ever brings it up). 

 

“Your vice-captain’s brother,” Atobe says, somewhat casually, “is a _very_ violent person, when he thinks he’s being crossed.” He takes the photograph out without looking at it. There’s no reason for him to go into another rage when his skin looks so nice today.

 

“That’s what he did to my lawyer when he found out he was being followed. Unfortunately, if I were to press charges against him for this, my investigation and link with you would be compromised.”

 

The fact that Sanada hasn't said _anything_ about this makes his stomach twist into knots, and the fact that even if he had mentioned it, there was nothing he could do--

 

Yukimura resists the urge to start grinding his teeth. "… So what can we do?" he quietly asks instead, pushing the photograph back across the table to Atobe. "If his brother is this sort of person, why is it so difficult to find some way to get Sanada away from him?" 

 

“Ah. Well.” Atobe leans back, tucking the photograph back in to his pocket, unable to avoid catching a quick glimpse of the swollen flesh, the purpled bruises, the cast. “Apparently, your friend’s brother is in possession not only of a violent temper, but quite a good lawyer as well. Go on, ask my knowledgeable self how he pays for it.”

 

Yukimura is sure he doesn't want to know. Not really. But--"How?" he deadpans.

 

“A trust fund.” Atobe’s smile tightens. “Not his own. Apparently he blew through that immediately, betting on races and card games. Now he lives without working by the benevolence of one Sanada Genichirou--though I doubt he knows of his own generosity.”

 

"So do something about it." It takes serious effort not to fish out his phone and find out when the next train leaves. Not that it would do any good, not when he can't drag Sanada back with him, though Yukimura is very tempted to do as much right now, no matter the repercussions. "Or tell me what I need to do. That isn't legal. There has to be _something_ that we can do about it." Maybe Atobe just doesn't understand exactly how badly something needs to be done.

 

“It isn’t up to me anymore.” Atobe’s smile slips finally from his face, and he leans forward. “Ah, Yukimura, you have to tell me this about your beloved subordinate--is family important to him?”

 

"…That definitely sounds like you're about to hire an assassin." Yukimura wonders if he's supposed to feel any smidgen of guilt for not really caring at this point, as long as it lands Sanada back on his doorstep.

 

“ _Because_ ,” Atobe says, trying not to look as entirely scandalized by the thought as he feels—really, how _crude_ — “it’s his signature on the documents, according to my lawyers. Obviously a forgery, but no one will be able to prove that unless Sanada—your friend, not his brother—contests his signature. Goes to court, calls his brother a liar. I learned that in pre-law school, in England.” _What do you do for summer vacation?_ Is almost on the tip of his lips.

 

Yukimura likes the ideas of assassins a lot better. They also seem a lot more likely, knowing Sanada. He exhales a long, exasperated breath, leaning back in his seat. "I'll have to talk to him," he finally settles upon, trying not to look or sound as annoyed as he feels. "His brother is all he has left. I'm not so certain he would go against him like that." He pauses, and gives Atobe a quizzical look. " _Pre-law school?_ "

 

Atobe laughs somewhat nervously, waving that away before Yukimura can _rudely_ question it any farther. “It’s fine. But yes, talk to him. I can get them separated, as long as he’s willing to send his brother to prison.”

 

That sounds as unlikely as anything. "And here I was thinking the Atobe family was a lot more resourceful than this," Yukimura sighs. "Ah, well. Back to kidnapping schemes it is." He's only half-joking. 

 

“Resources,” Atobe says, smile firmly back in place (more rebelliously than anything—damn it, Yukimura should NOT be able to make him slip this easily), “are only part of the picture. The other part includes only helping those who consent to be helped. Or it gets sticky, I’ve been informed. Ah, you hire _one_ sea monster without the birthday boy’s consent…”

 

"Oh, please don't be mistaken, Sanada is very much consenting," Yukimura sweetly replies. "Sometimes he just needs to realize that he is. In general, this is much easier if plans are already in place and _resources_ are already properly tapped into. I mean, you _did_ attend pre-law school, so…"

 

Yukimura is _really_ sort of rude. Atobe hadn’t exactly expected that, knowing him only from tennis and the clubs. “I—well, yes,” he says, fairly uncomfortable now. Absently, he fiddles with his mole. “Everything is in place, of course. I have lawyers—with quicker reflexes than the last one, of course—ready to snatch him the moment he consents. That’s _your_ job.”

 

"Consider it done and done, then." Hopefully. Mostly. Yukimura doubts it, but Sanada will just have to forgive him if he pulls a few (heart)strings to make this happen, one way or another. "I'll be very appreciative if your lawyers are actually as quick as you say." 

 

“I’ll appreciate you getting him to resolve this mess as soon as possible,” Atobe responds, shrugging—handsomely, of course. “I hope this won’t affect your game in prefecturals too much. I only want to beat the best!”

 

"You really _do_ have a great sense of humor! I've been told mine is quite dry, perhaps I could pick up a few things."

 

“Too dry,” Atobe agrees, somewhat grumpily. “I dislike my wines so dry. Perhaps you could do with a bit of joi de vivre, loosen you up a bit. You should stop by one of my villas! Do you have a passport, just in case?”

 

It's a damn good thing that Atobe is honestly harmless, and Yukimura can tell that from a mile away. His head tilts, his smile bemused. "Yes, though I don't drink, and my free time tends to be spent on trains as of late. Thank you for the offer, though. Try inviting your teammates instead." 

 

Atobe’s head cocks. “Trains? Oh, that’s no good. It must be _hours_ to Ibaraki by train, how does anyone manage it? Just let me know the next time you want to go, I’ll have you lifted. Ah, do you prefer planes, or helicopters?”

 

And then there's that. Yukimura just blinks at him. "…You're serious. Never mind, of course you're serious," he mutters, shaking his head. "Thank you, but as of a few weeks ago, I've been strictly prohibited from traveling that sort of distance, and trying to stay in my parents' good graces is sort of necessary if I want any of this to work out in the long term, so…"

 

“Ah, truly? What a shame.” Atobe kicks back in his chair with an easy, calculated shrug. “You could be there in twenty-four minutes, you know. If you have time to meet with me, you’d have time to see him.” He isn’t _stupid_. Just because he won’t say anything about it doesn’t mean he doesn’t _understand_.

 

"If I sneak off one more time to see him, they're going to make me stop playing tennis 'for my health.'" No matter how quietly he says it, the rising irritation over how ridiculous it all is sharpens his tone. Yukimura frowns. "And if that happens, so much of everything is moot. So I appreciate the offer, but…I can't." 

 

“You have more self-control than I gave you credit for,” Atobe praises faintly, standing up and stretching out his arms. “Then, for your _health_ , though you look as if you could outperform any member of Hyotei besides my glorious self, I’ll allow you to go. Call me if you change your mind, or if you get Sanada to sign the papers. I’m having them courier’d to your home presently, just in case you do see him.”

 

"Thank you." And he means it. Who _else_ has gone out of their way like this to try and help, after all? Yukimura sucks in a steadying breath, and climbs to his feet with a smile. "Best of luck in the prefecturals, then. Oh--which reminds me, have you heard from Tezuka lately?"

 

“Ah, yes!” Atobe’s eyes light up—he _loves_ talking about Tezuka. “I heard from him just this past week, actually! He’s been dealing with the issues of attempting to enter the professional circuit while maintaining his grades, which, of course, is _not_ the part with which he’s having trouble.” He also only answers the phone when Atobe says hello in German, as a begrudging way to practice the only foreign language Tezuka cares about.

 

"Ahh, he's still on that?" Yukimura mildly asks. He can literally count on one hand the times he's given a damn about Tezuka in his life, and all of those times have had to do with Sanada's general twitchiness regarding losing to him. That being said…Atobe has been doing him a lot of favors. The least he can do is humor some of _his_ interests, too. "I hope his arm hasn't been giving him any issues." He _does_ mean that sincerely, no matter how the excuse has made him roll his eyes on more than one occasion. 

 

Atobe throws his head back and laughs, gently wiping one solitary tear away from a perfectly-shaped eye. “Ah, I’m sure it has. It always does, when he thinks he might lose. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

 

"…I am so glad you have a brain," Yukimura cheerfully replies. "That makes things so much more pleasant."

 

“For me as well, I must suspect,” Atobe says cheerfully. “Shall I convey your wishes for his fullest recovery to dear Kunimitsu?”

 

"Please do. Mentally and physically, of course. Bonus points if you remind him that the professional circuit isn't going anywhere, and it's usually best to wait until you're at least done with high school to perfect one's craft."

 

Atobe’s head tilts. “You don’t know him very well, do you? Trust me, it’s best to stop suggesting things that make sense.”

 

Yukimura nods slowly in understanding. "Ah. One of those types. He wouldn't last around me, then."

 

Atobe’s head inclines. He’s not, as he’d told Yukimura, stupid. He and Tezuka are evenly matched on Tezuka’s good days, and from what he’s heard, Tezuka’s good days aren’t close to Yukimura or Sanada’s good days. “We’ll see at Nationals how long I’ll last around you. Or, of course, how long you’ll last around the beautiful me.”

 

Atobe really is funny. When all is said and done, he'll have to tell Sanada to not roll his eyes about Atobe quite so much, because if nothing else, he would be entertaining to be around. "We'll have a good match, I'm sure of it," Yukimura smoothly replies, priding himself on not giggling. "A pity Tezuka won't be there, what with him being _professional_ now and all, but you'll do."

 

There’s a sort of amused, somewhat startled respect in Yukimura’s eyes. Atobe loves that. He’d thought they’d get here earlier, to be honest, but he doesn’t care _when_ someone sees through him, as long as it happens eventually. “Yourself as well. Make sure not to develop any more life-threatening conditions, hmm? Nothing that compares to the misery of dear Tezuka’s arm, at least.”

 

" _Please_ tell me you tease him like that." He's laughing now, there's no help for it. "I mean, if anyone is allowed to, _you_ must be. Or does he still get huffy about it?" 

 

“He usually hangs up on me,” Atobe admits cheerfully. “But he usually does that in any case, so it’s worth the sacrifice.”

 

"That must get old after awhile. Ah, well, you're the one that has to endure it; good luck."

 

“We all have our burdens,” Atobe says with a grin. “I’ve heard Sanada laugh. Good luck yourself.”

 

"Oh, we've agreed never to do that again. The whole team, actually. It's for the best." 

 

Dammit, Atobe is starting to really like Yukimura. He stands, letting his jersey fall properly back over his shoulders. “Doubtless. Such displays of obscene mirth hardly befit the awe-inspiring Rikkai Dai, do they? If you ever change your mind about the helicopter, just call me. If you can convince him not to laugh, I’m sure you can convince him to sign a paper.”

 

God, he's not supposed to be in a better mood now. Whatever; Yukimura supposes he shouldn't argue about it too much. "I'll be sure to let you know." Now, if it were only that easy. 

 

~~

 

The fact that Sanada's school places high enough in the prefecturals to be seeded is _hilarious_ (albeit somewhat predictable, because for the most part, when Sanada says he is going to do something, it _does_ happen). 

 

In their own prefectural match, Yukimura is actually a bit sorry that he doesn't have the opportunity to play Atobe in singles one. Finally, his own team has hit their stride, and the game is decided by singles two after two solid doubles defeats. Now, if only Niou would get his head out of his ass enough to play a good singles game again… 

 

"See you at the Kantou drawing," he offers Atobe with a smile. That can't come soon enough, because it means he gets to see Sanada in _person_ (god willing), and actually being able to _discuss_ things with him in person is a very necessary thing. 

 

The day comes, and Yukimura can already hear the murmuring when he steps into the room and makes his way down the stairs. Rumor mills grate on him to no end in the first place, and the whole _Rikkaidai's previous captain and vice-captain are now rivals_ thing has been old for awhile now. He doesn't comment, doesn't as much as send anyone a glare, because that's too much effort when he can just plop himself right next to Sanada, beaming at him as he sets the other boy's hat on his head. "Thought you might want it back, for good luck in the upcoming matches."

 

Sanada takes in a slow, deep breath, trying not to act like a lovesick idiot just because Yukimura is close by. It isn’t easy. He reaches up and adjusts his grandfather’s cap with a brief nod of thanks. He doesn’t dare _look_ at Yukimura, knowing how much he wants to kiss whatever he sees now that he knows how that feels. “I’m keeping your headband. I need extra luck.”

 

"Mm, that's fine," Yukimura cheerfully says, rocking back in his seat a bit to peer up at Sanada no matter how he hides underneath his hat. Maybe he shouldn't have given it back. "Seems like you've been having a pretty solid run of luck lately, though. How did _that_ happen?" 

 

“The hell if I know.” Sanada shakes his head, chancing a quick glance at Yukimura—god, he’s gotten prettier. “Can you believe one of my doubles won? Then I took Singles Three, of course, and one of the boys I trained went against someone who landed wrong and sprained his ankle in the first five minutes. Total dumb luck.”

 

It's impossible not to start giggling. "I have to formally request that your good luck doesn't sprain _my_ ankle. No matter what, I want to really play you in a match."

 

“I fail to see how it’s luck to play against a compromised opponent.”

 

"Don't start that," Yukimura chides, giving Sanada's knee a pat. "Just be glad you got here." 

 

Sanada’s leg twitches, and he shifts subtly, using every meditative technique he knows to will his body _please don’t get excited_. “I am glad. I hope I draw you.”

 

"Me, too." Yukimura takes pity on him, and doesn't keep petting his knee for now. "Do you have time for me after this? I want to talk to you about something."

 

Sanada’s lips purse together, and he gives one quick nod. “Train leaves at three. We should have...an hour, probably.”

 

"That's fine. We can grab something to eat at the train station, if you want." 

 

It's funny watching the other teams when their name is called for the drawing, because _no one_ wants that first spot against Azobu High. Yukimura is fairly certain he sees even Atobe heave a little sigh of relief, which is enough to make him snicker underneath his breath. "You're the only one here that wants me," he says with a pout. "How cruel." 

 

“Just pragmatic.” Sanada raises one eyebrow, leaning slightly back in his seat. “They want to make it all the way. I know we have no chance. It’s best if I can just see you once.”

 

"So negative. Think positively, maybe one of your teammates will beat one of my upperclassmen."

 

“And maybe everyone on Fudomine will break their arms at the same time for no reason,” Sanada says dryly. “There is always hope.”

 

"That's the spirit," Yukimura brightly replies, and gives Sanada's knee a nice, long squeeze. "Not that it matters, just so long as I get to play you." 

 

Sanada grits his teeth. “Don’t just touch my leg out of nowhere. It’s mine.”

 

Slowly, Yukimura's lips twitch into a less-than-sweet smile. "Wrong," he murmurs, and rubs his thumb in a slow circle along the inside of Sanada's thigh for emphasis. "It's _mine_."

 

Sanada opens his mouth, then closes it again as a slow shudder courses through him. He looks down, forgetting where they are, forgetting everyone around them. “Yours?”

 

Whoops. Not sorry. Yukimura lowers his lashes, deliberately looking away even as his fingers tiptoe up the inside of Sanada's thigh. "Mine. Legs, arms, everything." 

 

Sanada’s certain he used to know how to breathe. He loses the battle for control over his body almost immediately, stiffening inside his pants. He reaches out, brushing a thumb over Yukimura’s shoulder. “Can I have this? Or...your nose?”

 

"Mm, that's fine," Yukimura hums, hooking a finger into one of Sanada's belt loops and tugging with a smirk. "But your whole body is mine. I'm greedy."

 

That’s a bit too much, and Sanada’s hand closes over Yukimura’s firmly. “Not _here_ ,” he growls, looking around. “If you don’t have a private place—”

 

"Chiyokawa High!"

 

"Whoops, that's you!" Yukimura observes, grinning as he tugs his hand free of Sanada's grasp and giving him a solid swat on the shoulder. "Go draw a winner, Sanada!" 

 

There’s really no question in Sanada’s mind what straw he’ll draw. Much more important to him is standing, walking in such a way that not _everyone_ will see how much he’s embarrassing himself.

 

He reaches in, and draws a number. He knows, somehow, even before looking.

 

“Azobu Private High School!”

 

It’s for the best.

 

Everyone in the nearby vicinity of Yukimura is decidedly weirded out by how _pleased_ he looks. That's also for the best. 

 

"Fate, or something like it," Yukimura tells him once they leave and head to the station, his bag on Sanada's shoulder already. It's still a habit for both of them, which is good. "Do you want to play singles three? It's up to you, I'll arrange things in a way that works best for you." 

 

Sanada nods shortly. “I won’t learn anything any other way. It’ll be a disappointment to you no matter what, there’s no one good to play up in Ibaraki. My playing has gotten worse.”

 

"Anyone's playing would suffer without a proper challenge. Don't be so hard on yourself; leave that to me when you come home." Yukimura hesitates a bit at that, taking a sip from his coffee before offering it to Sanada. "I spoke to Atobe the other day, actually." 

 

It’s difficult not to have a look of extreme distaste on his face at that. “What did he want?” Sanada asks, still not entirely sure he likes the idea of asking anyone for help, least of all _Atobe_.

 

"… He has a pretty solid idea on how to get you out of Ibaraki," Yukimura quietly answers. "But I know you're not going to like it. It's about your brother." 

 

Sanada casts Yukimura a quick, skeptical, searching look. “What about him? He won’t give up custody. I’ve asked him.”

 

Just _talking_ about Sanada's brother makes Yukimura get twitchy. "Small wonder, considering that without custody, he can't keep draining your trust fund." 

 

A slow blink. “He what? No, that money’s held in trust. He can’t withdraw it. No one can.”

 

Yukimura heaves a sigh, stopping and crooking a finger. "Give me my bag. I'll show you the papers Atobe gave me. You can see where he forged your signature and everything to get access to it."

 

Sanada clutches the bag harder instinctively. “He wouldn’t.” Hiroto is a lot of things, maybe even a thief, but this?

 

Yukimura scowls. "Except he _did_. And if you confirm that it's a forgery and say that in court, you can come _home_." 

 

Sanada wants to hit someone. He wants to hit someone through a _wall_ , at even the idea that his last living family might…. “No.” His voice comes out tight and strained. “I’ll talk to him. It must be a mistake.”

 

"As much as I loathe to say it, Atobe _isn't_ an idiot, and even if he was, his lawyers aren't--including the one your own brother _assaulted_ ," Yukimura crisply retorts, folding his arms over his chest. He hates being right about things like this. Sanada needs to stop being so _predictable_. "He's done the research already, so what's the use in asking your brother? If your brother finds out that you know before you take him to court, don't you think he'll just take all of your money and make things even worse for you?"

 

“Then let him!”

 

Sanada’s speaking far too loudly now, roaring a little, and he calms himself down with a slow, deep breath. It takes a few more slow, deep breaths before he can properly breathe without wanting to shout. 

 

He turns, facing away, and says quietly, “If that’s the only reason he wants me around, fine. I don’t care about the money.”

 

"So you _want_ to stay up there in the middle of nowhere with him?" Yukimura's voice gets softer for every level that Sanada's previously rose. "Maybe he's the only blood you have left, but he doesn't love you." 

 

Sanada lets out a snarl, and his fist connects with the nearest wall. When he pulls it away, there’s a dent in the stone, and his knuckles are bloody. “He’s all I have left! My parents would have wanted—”

 

His voice cracks, as if he’s eleven years old again, and he can’t find any more words.

 

Calmly, and without batting a single eye at Sanada's outburst, Yukimura reaches out to grab a fistful of the other boy's shirt, hauling him close. "Your parents," he firmly, quietly says, knocking his forehead against Sanada's, "would _never_ want anything like this to happen to you. You deserve better. There's no reason for you to _suffer_ when you don't have to. And he is _not_ all you have left; just the only flesh and blood, which is meaningless if he doesn't treat you like you are." 

 

All Sanada feels is lonely. The promise of warmth, of Yukimura’s touch, of being at the top of every list in tennis and going home every night without a sick pit of disgust and sorrow in his chest seems as far away as the moon. His shoulders sag, and he leans into Yukimura’s hold. “Even…even if he is. They won’t let me go with you. Your parents won’t, the government won’t.”

 

"Atobe seems to think he can fix that, too." Yukimura tugs again, shoving Sanada's face down into his neck, because he is very sure that is where Sanada's face should be. "He can't do anything if you won't testify against your brother, though." He hesitates, heaving a quiet sigh, and shuts his own eyes. "I understand why you don't want to," Yukimura admits, "and I know that maybe it's selfish to ask you to do it at all. You can think about it, and I'll try not to be mad, no matter what you decide."

 

Sanada pulls away briefly to look at Yukimura. The second he feels tears starting to prick his eyes, he shoves his face back in the other man’s neck. No one needs to see that kind of shame from him. “If I knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt, I’d be able to live with you,” he says quietly, muffled into the other man’s shirt, “I wouldn’t hesitate. They don’t...no one would recognize it. Our bond.”

 

"It doesn't matter who recognizes it." Yukimura's breath huffs out quietly into Sanada's neck, and he wraps his arms firmly around Sanada's back to give him a slow, solid squeeze. "Our school has dorms, you know, if we can somehow clear the whole guardian issue. That's something. I'm also still in favor of hiding you underneath my bed."

 

Sanada has to wince at that. “Seiichi….it isn’t so simple. I have my pride.” Something that’s important to him, even if no one else recognizes that it still _means_ something these days. Yukimura has always been better than most about recognizing it.

 

"I'm trying to lighten the mood a bit, relax." Yukimura sighs long and hard, and rocks back onto his heels as he releases Sanada. "Well, I was serious about the dorms thing, but that wouldn't be so bad. I'd move out and stay there with you, even, no matter what. Just… if this is a matter of pride, then take pride in what is best for _you_. Sitting in Ibaraki and wasting away isn't that, Genicihirou." 

 

It isn’t as if Sanada can _argue_. He doesn’t even want to—but pride burns in him fiercely, whether he wants it to or not. “I’ll talk to him,” he says, fingering the edge of his cap. “And if it’s true, I’ll tell him he can have my trust fund as long as he lets me board at Azobu.”

 

Yukimura reaches up and flicks him squarely between the eyes. "Why would you want to reward someone that's hurting you? He's just going to show up again at some point and make things worse for you again."

 

“Because going to Azobu with you is all I care about.” Sanada looks Yukimura squarely in the eyes. “You don’t know for a fact that the courts will let me go there. They might ship me off to a fourth cousin in Hokkaido for all you know. At least this way I’d get to be at your side.”

 

"Then I'll drag  you away from a fourth cousin in Hokkaido," Yukimura stubbornly returns, frowning up at him. "All or nothing, Genichirou. Don't settle just because you want to be here with me; we're going to do this right so it _stays_ right." 

 

“Then provide an alternative solution!” Sanada says, eyebrows drawing together. “Even if Hiroto is doing what you say, what then? What’s your big plan for when my last family member goes to prison? Ask the courts nicely if I can be my own guardian?”

 

"Can you have a little faith in other people for a change?" Yukimura snaps. "I don't like it any more than you do, but Atobe _seems_ to know what he's doing, and we don't have many other options at this point unless you want to keep being a martyr when you don't need to be."

 

“You want me to put my faith in _Atobe_?” Sanada asks, incredulous. “Instead of my own _family_? Maybe if it was _you_ that had an idea, but _him_?”

 

"It _was_ my idea to talk to him in the first place, if that makes you feel better," Yukimura snidely retorts. "And a lot of good your brother's been doing you lately, so yes, I think it's _perfectly logical_ for you to put your faith in someone that isn't out to ruin your life." 

 

Sanada’s tense, angry, not much at Yukimura, but at himself. He doesn’t _want_ it to be true, that Hiroto could be that kind of a person, even when he knows it’s true. Not for the first time, the idea of walking out the front door without looking back sounds miraculously attractive.

 

But then, there’s Yukimura.

 

Sanada’s stomach roils, and he gives one quick, angry nod. “Fine.”

 

"Then give me my bag." Yukimura doesn't wait for Sanada to obey in favor of hopping up and simply pulling it off of his shoulder to rummage through it. "Atobe already sent the paperwork to me for you to sign in case I saw you--you don't have to sign it right now, if you're still bent on talking to your brother," he sharply adds before Sanada can start snarling again. "Just take it." Yukimura pushes a small folder into Sanada's chest. "And whenever you're ready, send it back."

 

Sanada shakes his head, grabbing a pen from his pocket. He opens the folder, carefully signing his name in flowing strokes of the pen, and hands it over. Before letting go his grip, he looks Yukimura in the eye. “Don’t act on this until after I talk to him,” he says intently. “This is just easier because I spent all my money on the train to come here today.”

 

Even if that's the case, _relief_ courses through all of his limbs, and Yukimura nods, clutching the folder briefly to his chest before stuffing it back into his tennis bag. "You're letting me treat you before you go. Don't get bitchy about it, you can take me out to eat a dozen times over when you're home." 

 

Sanada takes a deep breath to calm his instinctive reaction, then bows deeply. “Thank you for taking care of me as your guest. I apologize for the humble nature of my own dwelling. In the future, with the improvement of my status, you will be a welcome and honored guest.”

 

That should satisfy pride for the moment, at least, since his stomach is rumbling.

 

"I look forward to it." Yukimura keeps a straight face for about a second before just grinning and grabbing Sanada's hat right off his head. "Too bad your train leaves so soon, or we'd get a real dinner. Later," he promises, and sets the hat down on his own head. "But for now, we'll make do."

 

That, Sanada supposes, is the best his day could possibly have gone. At least it means he gets to spend a little more time with Yukimura, as they _used_ to spend time together. That’s what he misses the most, he finds. Not the sex, although that was probably the best single experience of his young life. It’s the small moments, the certainty that there was someone to pour tea for, someone to eat with, someone he’d catch on the school roof sleeping at lunchtime and have to write up with the disciplinary committee. He takes Yukimura’s hand without fear, and nods. “Let’s eat.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Sanada is expecting Hiroto to be angry. He’s expecting a punch at least, or maybe the quiet anger their father used to show, whenever he was so upset he couldn’t find the voice to shout.

 

He’s not expecting to be thrown out.

 

He’s honestly a little baffled to find himself outside, on his brother’s doorstep with his schoolbag thrown after him. Hiroto locks the door, and Sanada stands confused and a little shocked outside, starting to sweat already in the humidity. 

 

He pulls out his phone, but it beeps rudely at him and shuts off—no more minutes. He looks in his pocket, and finds 23 yen—not enough for a train. Not even enough to park somewhere. 

 

Carefully, he pockets the coins, and gets onto his bicycle. It’s past closing time, which in this small town is 5pm. It stays light until past eight, but Sanada isn’t riding too fast. He doesn’t bother swinging by Mr. Saito’s fields. He’d already dug up all his money, in its little plastic bag, to afford the train to the drawing for Kantou. It’ll take a couple weeks more to save up enough to get back to Tokyo, and Yukimura.

 

The tennis shed isn’t locked at night. Sanada squashes down the guilt he feels at scaling the fence around his school, reasoning with himself that he’s _not_ stealing anything, there’s no reason to feel bad. The shed is considerably cleaner than it had been months ago, and he’s never needed much in the way of comfort.

 

He uses one of the stick brooms to sweep out a space on the floor, and settles down. He’s had worse sleeps, all things considered.

 

He wakes with the rooster’s crow from the school chicken coop in the morning, around his usual time of 4am. An hour’s meditation, and he’s lucky enough to find an unlocked door to the gymnasium, a perfect place to shower and wring his clothing as dry as possible after washing it in the shower. He drinks his fill from the water fountain, trying to make his growling stomach shut up.

 

Fortunately, the boys on his tennis team think it’s funny when he takes away their bread at lunch, informing them that fat tennis players don’t jump as high. He makes a show of eating half of it at lunch, eyes narrowed at all of them. The other half, he saves for later, when they’ve all gone home, and he settles down in the tennis shack again. 

 

Four days later, with nearly 600 yen saved up (not even a quarter of what he’ll need to go to Tokyo, but Mr. Saito’s hurt his back recently, and can’t cash his checks yet), he goes back home. Hiroto tells him to fuck off.

 

_Wait for me, Seiichi._

 

~

 

Yukimura expects for Sanada to take a day or two to get back to him. 

 

He doesn't expect for it to drag on quite this long.

 

A call to Sanada's phone yields nothing, and Yukimura fumes, angry at himself for not snatching the thing away from Sanada while he was here and buying up enough minutes for even a month's worth of long conversations. It makes him nervous to not be able to get in contact with Sanada. Even if Sanada can take care of himself, it's his own _brother_ that he has to deal with this time, and maybe he's being paranoid, but it's hard to expect anything good out of someone that beats up a lawyer and steals their own flesh and blood's money. 

 

There are a dozen warring factions in Yukimura's head. If he sneaks off on a train--or…helicopter--to Ibaraki again, his parents will _never_ let him out of their sight, and the thought of them following through and making him quit the tennis club, or not being able to live in the dorms like he'd _promised_ Sanada makes a pit in his stomach twist and churn. If he can't be with Sanada later, then what's the point? But if something happens to Sanada _now_ , then there won't be a _later_ \--

 

It's nearly midnight, and sleep is for those less occupied by their thoughts. Yukimura offers a silent apology to Sanada as he sends Atobe a single text: _I have Sanada's signature._

 

Atobe never really considers nighttime to necessarily be _sleep_ time. He texts back immediately. _Fax or bring them to me, and consider it done._

 

Who the hell faxes anything anymore? Europeans, Yukimura irritably thinks, and wonders how weird his parents would think he is for sneaking into his father's office at this hour.  Oh well. He rolls out of bed to do just that. _How done? Like, immediately bringing him home done? I haven't heard from him all week._

 

 _Have to wait until the courts open,_ Atobe texts, flopping back onto his bed. _An order of protection should go into effect today_. His phone alerts him to the absence of characters available, and he switches to SMail with a scowl. _They’ll bring his brother into custody whenever the local court opens. Sanada will go to a court-appointed home, but I have a plan._

 

"Nii-chan? It's late, why are you up?" 

 

"I could say the same to you--go to bed, Kaede," Yukimura hisses, shutting the office door in his little sister's pouting face once he tiptoes in. _What kind of plan? I promised him that he'd be able to come to Azobu, sooner rather than later._

 

_Now, now. Don’t try to rush perfection. Also, if you have prior knowledge, you could become liable._

 

Atobe sends his text, then thinks for a moment, brow furrowing. _I’ll at least get him moved to a home in Tokyo in the interim. My lawyers can manage that much, at least._

 

 _D o r m s_ is the firm text Yukimura sends in response, and he dials down the volume on the fax machine. _Tokyo is only a start. He had a full scholarship to Azobu before all of this happened, it shouldn't be that hard to arrange his enrollment again, right?_ Not that he knows anything about that sort of thing, but it's _Atobe_ , and Atobe does seem to be capable of accomplishing some pretty bizarre stuff. 

 

Atobe worries at his bottom lip, thinking. Then--yes, of course.

 

_You owe me one for this. Prepare to be awed._

 

 _I will literally do anything_. Yukimura hopes Atobe realizes how few times he has said that in his life. Mostly, it's been to doctors, and he doesn't like remembering that at all. The paper slowly feeds through after he dials, and Yukimura flops back into his father's desk chair with a sigh. _Thank you_. 

 

_Must go, calling in favors. Chin up, you’ll have him soon._

 

Atobe picks up a different phone, and calls an old family friend, reflecting that for once, Father might take enough notice of this to be frustrated--but probably not, which is for the best.

 

~

 

At first sight of the men in suits, Sanada is sure he’s about to be arrested for living on school property for ten days. He soon discovers this isn’t the case, rising from a floor-height bow and being escorted into a very fancy-looking Western-style car. There’s another occupant inside, a man of about fifty years, that Sanada has never seen before. The man smiles, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Beloved nephew. I’ve missed you so.”

 

“My apologies,” Sanada says quietly, in utter confusion and realizing just how rumpled he must look next to this pressed and cleaned gentleman. “I don’t think I know you.”

 

“We _have_ met,” the man assures him, and offers a handshake, Western-style to go with the car and clothing. “I was on your acceptance panel for Azobu. We only saw each other briefly.”

 

Sanada blinks, and remembers. He bows deeply, apologizing on instinct. “Kouchou-sensei, please forgive my rudeness, I never intended to forget your honored face.”

 

“That’s unnecessary, though appreciated. Really, is that how you treat family?”

 

Sanada blinks. “I don’t understand. Forgive me.”

 

The man--Sanada thinks his name is Owada--pulls out a folded paper from the inside of his jacket. “Legal proof that you are my grand-nephew. It was certainly a surprise to me when I found out. Good timing, that this connection was discovered right when your brother was apprehended for embezzlement, misappropriation of funds intended for a minor, neglect, sexual harassment, and theft, don’t you think?”

 

_That paper._

 

Sanada should have _known_ Yukimura would do something like this when he wasn’t in contact for a few days...and right now, he can’t complain too much. “Sexual harassment?”

 

“A girl at the local--ah, Snack Bar, I believe it’s called? Complained, and the complaint was buried. We un-buried it. Now, moving forward, I’m afraid I have no home that is suitable for my grand-nephew—”

 

“How exactly are we related, Sensei?”

 

“Never mind that. It’s all perfectly legal.” The man smiles. “Fortunately, one of my dear judge friends has approved the dormitories at Azobu as a place of residence for you during the school year.”

 

Sanada isn’t really sure what’s going on, but this all has the stink of Atobe all over it. Just now, in an air-conditioned space for the first time in weeks and on his way _back home_ , he couldn’t care less. “Yes, Sensei.”

 

~

 

Yukimura could kiss Atobe. Except he won't. Neither of them want that at all (he hopes--Atobe can be weird). 

 

Atobe sends him some sort of vague text earlier that day about everything being _done and done_ , and Yukimura is left anxiously tapping his foot throughout most of the day, constantly craning his neck to get a glimpse out of the classroom windows in hopes of seeing a car pull up to the nearby dormitories with Sanada's silhouette emerging from it. Even tennis practice feels like it's dragging, and Yukimura takes out his nervous energy by running every assigned lap himself, too, at a pace about five seconds ahead of everyone else. 

 

He's still not really that tired afterwards, not with the prospect of _Sanada, Sanada, Sanada_. 

 

"I _did_ finally hear that there's supposed to be a transfer student coming in," one of the upperclassmen allows, and that's all Yukimura needs to know because he's gone, good-bye, glued to the steps of the dorms permanently until Sanada arrives, no matter how he's positively vibrating.

 

When Atobe says he's going to work fast, he really does _work fast_. He hasn't even had time to convince his parents that his own moving out is a great idea. If Sanada is there, though, it should be _fine_. 

 

~

 

 

The closer Sanada gets to Tokyo, the less he thinks about his brother. 

 

This is by no means any solution he would have _chosen_ , but if he’s being perfectly honest, it’s probably the best he could have envisioned, after the tragedy. He would rather, a hundred times rather, be his own guardian, responsible for his own fate by the sweat on his own brow. He doesn’t _care_ about the money, especially not when they pull up to Azobu and his new apparent guardian ushers him out of the car.

 

He makes his way to the dorms, remembering too well where he’d visited them with his parents and Yukimura’s family, deciding that this was _definitely_ the school where they’ll plan to make a home.

 

Now, it’s not quite the same--but it’s still the place he’s dreamed of, on the rare occasions he’s allowed himself to think positively.

 

There’s a bent shadow on the stairs of the dorm, and Sanada’s breath stops. He knows that shadow, would know it _anywhere_ in _any_ position, and he almost drops his schoolbag as he throws propriety to the wind, hitting a dead run to the front door.

 

Yukimura has exactly ten seconds to scramble up and onto his feet before the force of being in Sanada's arms steals the breath entirely from him. 

 

He thinks that probably, he should apologize--for a dozen things, like taking so long or acting when he said he wouldn't or… a lot of things he can't remember, more than likely. Yukimura finds that he really doesn't care to when he can shove his face into Sanada's neck and breathe him in as he tries not to entirely climb him like a tree just to be closer still. 

 

Sanada is pretty sure that were he in his right mind, he’d be a lot more careful with Yukimura than this. 

 

As it is, he can’t come close to caring. 

 

His grip is like steel, and he lifts Yukimura without entirely meaning to, somehow more shaken by the last two weeks of absence from him than by the months beforehand. At least in those, he’d had hope. 

 

Now, he has… “ _Seiichi_ ,” he whispers, eyes closed as he hangs on for dear life.

 

The way Sanada says his name makes Yukimura shiver down to his bones, and he clings to Sanada's back, entirely unfazed by no longer having his feet on the ground. It's better that way. "Genichirou," he exhales, fisting his hands tighter into the material of his shirt. "I told you I'd bring you home."

 

Sanada almost protests that this isn’t _home_ , not _really_ , but there’s no point--and besides, the dorms are just as much home as Ibaraki ever was, anyway. “Thank you,” he says instead, and it costs him something.

 

"Don't. I'm sorry." Yukimura flops his weight against him, dangling in Sanada's hold. "Because this is temporary--until we have our mountain, at any rate."

 

Sanada’s arms tighten with Yukimura’s surrender, and his own. For the first time in months, he can see a future ahead that doesn’t fill him with nothing but cold. “This is enough of a mountain for me.”

 

Yukimura thinks he _rumbles_ at that. He rather feels like one of the rumbling, purring stray cats at shrines, all floppy and content once they find a warm resting place in someone's lap or in the sun. "I still want to move in with you here. Remind my parents that you're a good boy and very responsible, won't you?" 

 

“I’d never let anything happen to you. They should know that already.” Really, _everyone_ should know that already. “But you were with me when you collapsed, so I can see how they might not trust me.”

 

Yukimura snakes a hand down his back, and gives Sanada's rear a solid pinch. "It isn't that. They're just weird about me not being in their sight all the time now. Let me down, I'm sweaty and tired of dangling." 

 

Sanada lets out a little “Hrrrrk!” sound at the pinch, letting Yukimura stand on his own. “Right,” he says, cheeks pink. “Ah, Kouchou-sensei--I suppose I should say uncle--told me you could show me to my room? 229?”

 

"So _that's_ how Atobe arranged it," Yukimura muses, rocking on his heels briefly once he's set back onto his feet. "No complaints here, I suppose. Oh, god, and we don't have to just talk by _phone_ anymore--do you have any idea how nervous I was when I couldn't get in touch with you?" he immediately begins as he starts up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Never again." 

 

“I have some idea,” Sanada says under his breath. He follows after Yukimura--not a bad view, all things considered— and takes the stairs easily two at a time. If he weren’t following, he’d probably have run. If nothing else, life in Ibaraki has been good for his leg strength. He watches the door numbers pass by, and suddenly catches a whiff of Yukimura’s scent, walking behind him--sunshine, earth, sweat, herbs, and it’s all Sanada can do not to throw him against a wall right then and there.

 

"Here we are!" For being such an old school, at least Azobu is kept up by stringent maintenance. That's obvious in how surprisingly bright and clean the room is, no matter how small, and Yukimura throws himself headlong onto one of the beds, rolling to the side a little once he hits the mattress with it squeaking underneath him. "It'll do! Hey, no more disciplinary committee things in high school, I know you'll be getting on my case enough without that to spur you on." 

 

The schoolbag falls from Sanada’s hand as his eyes lock on to Yukimura, rolling around on what from now on is _his bed._ He nods, slowly advancing on the bed. “Don’t worry about that. You’ll be plenty busy. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

"If you're going to _start_ something, at least lock the door." 

 

Yukimura rolls onto his back, a smile curving his lips as he props himself up onto his elbows. "The walls aren't too thin, thankfully, or so Niou has told me." 

 

“Good.” Sanada locks the door, thrilling at the fact that he _has_ a door to lock again, and slowly peels off his rumpled clothing. He can’t take his eyes off of Yukimura, the way he moves, the way he just _lays there_ looking like a ridiculously erotic old painting. 

 

At least he knows he’s clean, after his obsessive showers every day. It doesn’t have the soothing feeling of a real bath, but he hasn’t been able to take one of those for months now. At least he’s scrubbed, and won’t feel as if he’s dirtying Yukimura with his presence. 

 

He stands beside the bed, kneeling onto it and starting to unbutton Yukimura’s casually untucked shirt. “Let me undress you,” he murmurs, eyes alight with desire.

 

"Please," is the immediate, breathy exhale, Yukimura's eyes locked on the way Sanada moves, the long, lean sinew cording his limbs (maybe too-lean, that's a new one, but fixed easily enough) and nothing else matters in an instant. Nothing but having Sanada's hands on him matters-- Sanada's hands on him somewhere _safe_ and _permanent_ and not going to be taken away from them so very easily. The relief is a little too raw, and Yukimura doesn't quite want to believe it. "Maybe things will finally be normal again," he murmurs, breath hitching as he twists and lurches up to bury his face into the side of Sanada's neck. 

 

Sanada lays two fingers over his lips, sternly shushing him. “Tempting fate isn’t becoming,” he says in a low, warning tone. “Just give thanks that we’re here, now.”

 

He presses kisses, a hundred feather-light kisses, when his fingers part the fabric. He bares Yukimura’s chest and stomach, following the opening V of his shirt, until he finishes his work, sliding it off one pale shoulder at a time. “I do.”

 

Yukimura groans as he flops back, wriggling his fingers out of a sleeve and letting his head hit the pillow with a satisfying thump. "Sorry," he murmurs, squirming a little at the touch of Sanada's lips to his flesh, and curling his toes into the bedsheets, "you're right. I just missed you so much. Nothing feels right without you, Genichirou." 

 

Sanada wants to say that without Yukimura it’s been misery--and it _has_ , but he doesn’t care right now. Instead, he folds Yukimura’s shirt, then sets it on the floor, getting to work on his pants. His hands don’t tremble, but that takes a long of concentration and willpower. He lowers his mouth, pressing a long, slow kiss to the front of each hip bone, then tugging off slacks and underwear together. “God. You’re perfect.”

 

"Wrong, that's you," Yukimura rumbles, sliding a hand down and through Sanada's hair, slowly stroking a thumb along his scalp and down the back of his neck. His nerves sort of _hum_ when he's around Sanada, and it's a feeling that he can't even compare to anything else, not even the rush of adrenaline in a match. Now, when he doesn't have to think or _worry_ about anything else, it's even more at the forefront of his mind, making him shiver and twitch. 

 

Sanada barely has the concentration to fold Yukimura’s slacks before he slides down, skin against skin as he covers Yukimura’s body with his own. Gently, reverently, he cups Yukimura’s face in large hands, bringing him close for a long, slow kiss. This is everything that’s kept him going for the last several days, after his life had collapsed. The promise that one day soon, they’d be laying side by side, entwined, had been worth  all of his work. “Let me have you.”

 

A nod is a lot easier to manage than anything else right then, especially when Sanada slides against him warm and solid and strong. Yukimura lurches up, his own kisses _needy_ , his fingers curling into Sanada's back as he wriggles beneath him, splaying his legs with a sigh to better cradle Sanada's hips between them. "All yours," he murmurs, gently biting at Sanada's lower lip. "I'm in your care, Genichirou." 

 

Sanada nods slowly--he’s accepting the trust Yukimura is giving him, more than anything, and wants Yukimura to _know_.

 

“Give me everything I need,” he breathes, bending to brush his lips across the hollow in Yukimura’s throat, liking the way that makes him arch, liking the way that pale skin looks when his teeth rasp over it, leaving trails of soft pink behind. “You have it, don’t you?”

 

"Mmhm, in my bag, inside pocket," Yukimura agrees with a little laugh, not at _all_ sorry for being prepared for this. He paws a hand up through Sanada's hair again, pulling his mouth back to the arch of his neck, his breath a hissing, hitching sigh. _That_ feels nice. It feels even better when it isn't rushed or hurried at all, and he has the chance to just wriggle and rub up against Sanada. "In a minute, though. That requires moving, and you feel _really_ good like this." 

 

Sanada stretches out, sliding the length of his entire body against Yukimura’s. “I,” he says quietly, between slow, hot kisses against Yukimura’s neck, his shoulder, his chest, “would map every part of you.” _With my mouth, with my hands, with my eyes and my heart._

 

He trails large hands down Yukimura’s chest, down to his hips, and up his sides. “I want to know your sensitive places,” he murmurs, more confident with every good noise he hears, glad now that he’d checked out the small book of erotic poetry from the library. He doesn’t feel like an awkward child now, not like the first time. Now he feels like a man, caring for his lover.

 

Yukimura wonders if he makes Sanada feel like this--rather like jelly, shaky and a little bit melty as he sinks into the bed with a breathy sigh. "Everything feels like that when you touch me," he dazedly admits, scratching his nails slowly down the bumps of Sanada's spine as he arches up into the splay of those long fingers over his ribs. "You should…ah…at some point…practice your calligraphy on me. I'll try and be still, I promise." He'll probably fail miserably. Sanada can just hold him down, that's fine.

 

Sanada’s hands tighten, suddenly bruisingly tight on Yukimura’s hips as he lets out a sound halfway between a growl and a groan. “You shouldn’t do that,” he breathes, teeth grazing Yukimura’s chest harder this time. “You’re trying to get me to give up my patience.” All he can think is how Yukimura would look, covered with elegant strokes of his brush, painted, _marked_. He’d be even more of a work of art than he already is, and that’s saying something.

 

Ah, god, that's _nice_. Yukimura shudders, flexing his nails in with a breathy, ragged groan as his hips jut up on their own accord, grinding his cock in small, eager little circles against Sanada. "I never said you had to be patient," he replies with a grin. "Just wanted to enjoy you a bit longer. You can do whatever you want with me."

 

“I will,” Sanada says, more a promise than anything. He lets his hand move down, then up one long, lean thigh, closing his hand around Yukimura’s cock. He had intended to be _smooth_ about the whole thing, but the feel of it, hot and heavy and solid, steals his breath. 

 

Then he slides down, parting those legs and looking lower, stroking his other hand over Yukimura’s balls, pressing a kiss to the inside of one thigh. “You want to be my canvas?”

 

Yukimura doesn't _whine_ , but damn if he doesn't come close. The sound is choked back as a raspy, throaty thing, and he flops his head back onto the pillow with a nod as his cock throbs, his fingers curling into the bedsheets. "Definitely," he breathes. "You should paint something really obscene on me." 

 

“I don’t study the obscene kanji!” 

 

Sanada’s scowl isn’t very serious, and it doesn’t last long. He rubs his thumb over the tip, enjoying the feel of the sticky, slippery stuff, and the way it makes Yukimura writhe when he plays with it. “Here, I’ll start.”

 

He has to keep returning to the tip of Yukimura’s cock, thinking how obscene it is that he’s doing this at all, much less with his fingertips on Yukimura’s stomach. “Thirteen strokes. Guess.”

 

"Hell if I know," Yukimura groans, twisting half onto his side as he _writhes_ , the muscles in his legs and stomach tense and shivery with every stroke of Sanada's fingers. So much for holding still, but it's _impossible_ when Sanada is touching him like that and like hell he can tell what he's writing but that's fine because every little stroke makes him twitch. "Geniiichirou, that's not _fair_." 

 

“You’re not paying attention. I’ll do it again.”

 

Yukimura aims a kick for Sanada's hip and misses entirely. "Write it with actual ink so I can see it, you pervert!" 

 

“You asked for obscenity,” Sanada says, somewhat strict. “Pay attention. Thirteen strokes.” He traces the lines of his first “character” exactly, following the lines from memory. “It’s too embarrassing to say aloud, you have to guess.”

 

"If it's too embarrassing, why do _I_ have to say it?" Yukimura flops back with another shiver, shutting his eyes as he focuses on actually following the elegant drag of Sanada's fingertip. Oooh. "'Love'?" he laughs, kneading his toes slowly against Sanada's thigh. "But that's not obscene, that's sweet. Or it would have been, if you had tried to deny that you're a pervert…"

 

“I said I don’t study obscene kanji. Any kanji would be obscene like _this_.”

 

Nonetheless, he trails a kiss up Yukimura’s thigh, then pulls back, looking up at his eyes. “Hold still.”

 

He grabs Yukimura’s bag, pulling out the condom and small bottle, face flushing as he tips some liquid onto his fingers. He nudges Yukimura’s thighs apart, remembering what Yukimura had done last time, and what he likes on himself. He slides in a finger, biting his lip at the tight heat, the sudden squeeze, nothing like doing it on himself, and sees what Yukimura had meant about needing him to _relax_. “Do you practice this, on yourself?”

 

Yukimura sags back down with a slow, ragged exhale, lidding his eyes as he tries not to squirm too much. "A little bit--mnn, definitely better when it's you," he admits. Sanada has always had nice hands, and imagining those long fingers on him, _in him_ have easily been the source of many lost hours of sleep. Now that they're finally _here_ , it's too tight still, but slick and hot and it's _good_ when Sanada curls that finger a little and leaves Yukimura shivering and splaying his thighs wider. "Not gonna break, you know."

 

“It isn’t about not breaking you.” Sanada says it quietly, adding another finger and stroking slowly, curling his hand around Yukimura’s cock again, pressing kisses to his chest as he stretches, lubricates. “It’s about serving you as well as I am able. We finally have a _bed_ , let me do this properly.”

 

Yukimura's breath leaves him in a rush, biting his lip to keep back another higher, breathier sound when his hips roll up into Sanada's hand, his cock aching, dripping in Sanada's grasp as he mindlessly wriggles down. "Like it when you do things properly," he raggedly sighs out, his eyes fluttering when Sanada's fingers curl just _right_ inside of him, stroking and rubbing where he's never been able to reach. 

 

Sanada looks down, satisfied, and withdraws his fingers. Then, the movements sure and confident, he grabs Yukimura’s hips and flips him over onto his stomach, holding him down with one large hand in the small of his back, tearing open the condom with his teeth and other hand. “Then let me do this properly. Raise up for me.”

 

At that, Yukimura _does_ squeak, though he's grateful most of the sound is muffled into the mattress. "I was _fine_ on my back," he lowly growls, shooting Sanada a vaguely annoyed look over his shoulder. "Let me roll back over, it's better that way."

 

“No.” 

 

Sanada knows why he’s protesting something so foolish, of course. Allowing Yukimura to do this on his back, both of them entwined awkwardly, limbs half-raised, looking into each other’s eyes, is not what he wants from this. Strong muscles hold Yukimura down, and he drops his head, pressing a long, slow kiss that turns into a lick up the long, raised scar on Yukimura’s back. “I want this.”

 

If it were anyone else even _looking_ at that scar, Yukimura would have probably thrown them out the window. 

 

It should piss him off more that Sanada isn't letting him have his way, that he's doing something that should turn him off in an instant and is _touching_ something that Yukimura hates remembering is even there at all. He swallows hard, and lets his head drop forward with a ragged huff of breath. 

 

Instead, Sanada touching that damned scar just makes him harder.

 

It actually makes Yukimura dizzy from that thrumming rush of blood and the skyrocketing of his pulse, and he trembles, fisting his hands into the pillow in front of him as his face flushes hot. 

 

" _Why?_ " 

 

“Because.”

 

Sanada is a little confused that Yukimura even has to ask, when it’s so obvious to him. He runs his lips, his tongue along the edges, holding Yukimura down with strong muscles, edging his legs apart to kneel between them. “It’s a symbol,” he says quietly. “Of how much you’ve overcome. Of how hard you worked to come back to us, to be your best self. I would count myself honored to have one of these.”

 

Only Sanada would make that scar sound like such a _good_ thing. Coming from him, Yukimura can actually even believe it. He mostly muffles his laugh into the pillow, hoping that Sanada can't tell that it's a bit wet around the edges, and he heaves himself up better onto his elbows, allowing himself to _enjoy_ the slick, obscene drag of Sanada's tongue. "Only you could make it sound so valiant," Yukimura murmurs. "All right. If you want it, you can have it." 

 

Sanada probably would have taken it anyway. He pays the scar tribute, with the careful, worshipful licks of a supplicant. 

 

Then he plants a strong hand in the middle of Yukimura’s back, pushing him down and yanking his hips up, back against the hard, slick length of his cock. “I want all of you,” he rumbles. “Let me have it.”

 

Somewhere along the line, Yukimura lets his mind effectively click off. 

 

 _That's_ soothing. It's nice, just letting himself nod and breathlessly agree, wriggling back and sucking in a ragged inhale when he feels how _hard_ Sanada is against him. It's good how easily Sanada pulls and yanks him around and really, that's _always_ been good, ever since he could remember, Yukimura dreamily recalls. Now, it's even better. "Whatever you want," he agrees, "it's yours."

 

“I know.” 

 

Then Sanada pushes slowly forward, into the slick white tight heat of Yukimura’s body, and nothing matters anymore. 

 

Maybe they’ve always been _one_ , linked in every part of their bodies, and the way they move on the tennis court is just an extension of that. Sanada moves, and Yukimura moves, and everything is hot, bright, all-consuming, lips against a scar and flesh against his hands. He holds Yukimura’s hips up, letting himself slide in _deep_ , watching the bow and arch of Yukimura’s spine. “That’s--ah--it’s—”

 

Words, he used to know words.

 

 _It's a lot more than I bargained for_.

 

Maybe this is nature's way of making up for dozens of terrifying moments where he couldn't feel _anything_. Now, it's almost too much-- _tense hot achy slick slippery weird reallyweird good_ \--and Yukimura chokes, gasping for a full breath, the twinge of aching, stretching sensation sliding all the way down to his toes and leaving him spread wide and trembling around Sanada's cock. He groans as he sags forward, rubbing his face down into the pillow, his hair fanning over white cotton with the movement of lurching _back_ as mindless encouragement. "Good," he rasps out, voice little more than a rumble low in his chest. "Really good." 

 

If it weren’t for the reassurance, Sanada would probably have stopped. Yukimura is obviously overstimulated, writhing and keening desperately, but that doesn’t mean Sanada can stop. He thrusts slow and easy, holding himself inside as far as he can go for a few seconds every time, luxuriating in the _tightness_ of it, in the feeling that he’s _inside Seiichi_. That’s a heady, startling thought, and it makes Sanada so hard he aches from it. “Bear with it,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to the back of Yukimura’s shoulder, turning his head for a kiss. “Just a bit longer, I need you.”

 

"Make it _last_ ," Yukimura groans, somehow drawing on the strength to twist himself enough to grasp for Sanada's hair, pulling him in for a sloppily breathless kiss. Sanada slides in so perfectly, so thoroughly and _deeply_ that it makes his eyes roll back, and Yukimura has to remember how to breathe when all his body wants to process is _more more just like that do that again_. "God… _Genichirou_ \--"

 

“Seiichi—”

 

Sanada feels like he’s about to die. It’s a sweet death, but not one he’s actively courting, not when there’s so much more of Yukimura’s body still to explore. His teeth scrape against one earlobe, voice ragged as he pants the other man’s name over and over, a reverent prayer, a supplication. Every stroke feels as if he’s coming home all over again, the most exquisite pain rippling through from his hair to his toes. He curls an arm around Yukimura, touching his face, his chest, sliding down to palm his cock slowly with every thrust. “I want--I want…”

 

_I want to be in your very soul._

 

More and more, Yukimura likes being able to just lend himself to Sanada's hand. 

 

God, but it's good just being able to lean and shudder and squirm and _bask_ in the pull of Sanada's hands, the way it makes him claw into the sheets when he slides in deep and wraps his arms around him and kisses him and touches him in the way that _proves_ Sanada knows Yukimura so, so well. The sound that leaves his throat is an all-too incriminating _whine_ when Sanada's hand drags along his cock, when he just happens to wriggle back at the same time, and there's no _helping_ the way his mind goes fuzzy and all he can smell and think about and _feel_ is Sanada, around him and inside him and--

 

Yukimura loses himself with a long shiver that rakes from his fingers to his toes, leaving him lurching and panting and so much for _lasting_ but he just _can't_ \--couldn't, not with how he can feel everything so sharply, so acutely. "You're….ahh, god, Genichirou…" Maybe he swears a little, too, but that's muffled into the pillow when he shoves his face back down into it. 

 

“Bear with it,” Sanada grunts, not sure if he’s said that already or not, unable to _think_ when Yukimura’s squeezing him like that, a slick, hot vise around his cock that leaves him no mind left for thought. More than that is the thought that _Seiichi is coming in my arms, Seiichi has lost himself because of the way I touch him_ , and that is almost unbearable. 

 

He hopes his thrusts aren’t too ragged, too fast, too deep, but he’s never done this before, and his body seems to take over. Maybe if Yukimura hates it, he’ll learn a better way, but for now all he can do is shove his cock into Yukimura over and over, squeezing and stroking and _kissing_ , breathing, “Seiichi, _please_ ,” unaware what he’s even asking for.

 

"Genichirou, j-just--" Yukimura's voice cracks a little at the edges, but that's fine, he doesn't _care_ , not when he's already a trembling, aching mess, and he twists and squirms to stretch a hand back, his nails raking against Sanada's arm. "Whatever you want," he pants out, face half-buried into the pillow still. "Told you already, it's yours, _I'm_ yours."

 

The slight edge of pain is all he needs, and Sanada lurches forward, teeth sinking into Yukimura’s shoulder. He doesn’t even know _why_ , just that he needs to bite, to taste, to be a part of Yukimura and leave a mark on him. _I was here. We were here. We’ll always be here._

 

He lets out a ragged, strangled noise when he finally lets himself fall, tipping into the abyss with a last uneven thrust deep into Yukimura’s body. It’s too much, and he stays there, buried deep, trying to remember that he can breathe and that’s _fine_. 

 

He falls down to the bed, face buried in Yukimura’s neck, tracing shaky kanji on his skin.

 

Yukimura finally, gratefully allows himself to go boneless, feeling rather like a melted puddle on the bed as he breathes heavily into the mussed sheets. "Not guessing that one," he mumbles after a moment, wiggling his toes a little to remember that basic, normal movement is a _thing_. Easy to forget, when everything still feels akin to a whirlwind. "Too many strokes." Or maybe it's too few, who knows.

 

Sanada laughs, curling around Yukimura, and it sounds even to his own ears like the most open, honest sound that’s come out of him in a long time. “It was your name, idiot,” he says fondly, pressing a hard, swift kiss to Yukimura’s cheek.

 

"I'm definitely used to you writing it wrong," Yukimura immediately shoots back, burrowing back against Sanada no matter the way he aches. "Congratulations, you finally conquered 'ichi.'"

 

“It’s a strange ‘ichi,’” Sanada mutters. “Not a sensible one, like in Genichirou.”

 

"You should write your name on me instead, then. Get out the permanent ink."

 

Sanada’s cock twitches against Yukimura’s ass. “Don’t tempt me.”

 

Yukimura turns his head to bat his eyelashes at him, oh-so-innocently. "It was a genuine offer, _Genichirou_. I'd offer to get a tattoo, but then how would we go to onsens together?"

 

“I can leave my mark on you plenty without disturbing the perfection of your body,” Sanada rumbles in his ear, refusing to rise to the bait this time. Gently, he sets his teeth into the curve of Yukimura’s shoulder, leaving toothmarks.

 

Ah. Yes, that's good. Yukimura shivers as he stretches out, flopping his head back down in very content surrender. "Permanent ink it is, then. Or chew on me however much you want, whatever comes first."

 

“Both,” Sanada says firmly, “is a good answer.” It doesn’t seem real still, that he has Yukimura here, and they’re allowed to _stay_. For that, he wraps his arms more tightly around the other man, making every second last, slowly inhaling the scent of the rest of his life by choice.


	7. Chapter 7

Chiyokawa High is crushed to pieces in the Kantou tournament. It's for the best, though Yukimura allows them a pitying smile all the same, and plays singles three as a gesture of thanks for entertaining Sanada for the past few months.

 

"They were weird!" Marui defends of the points Chiyokawa's doubles one managed to procure. "They just shot all over the place! What was I supposed to do?!"

 

"It's fine," Yukimura cheerfully tells him, and it is, really, for the most part. Except not. If they had actually dropped a game to Sanada's temporary school, he would have been positively _mortified_. Lucky for the team (Marui), he's in an exceedingly good mood, and has no intention of changing that any time soon (even if his parents are still awful nags, hounding him at every opportunity even weeks after he's convinced them that the dorms are fine and Sanada is taking care of him and no, he's not going to collapse again and _die_ , go away, mom). 

 

He's also in a good mood even when Atobe finally comes to call on his favors. It's hard not to be in a good mood, honestly, when his evenings are spent with Sanada hissing at him about not doing his homework except for anything that involves drawing, and his mornings spent with Sanada scolding him for not being up sooner (and then continually being pleased at how quickly Yukimura turns from half-asleep blob to concentrated energy on the court, raking anyone and everyone over the coals, Sanada included).

 

A pool party sounds innocuous enough, but Yukimura knows better. He decides to keep neglecting to tell Sanada about the undefined favors he owes Atobe. It isn't like Atobe is going to do anything _too_ ridiculous--it'll just be… Atobe-ish. That's a term.

 

Atobe holds out the uniform, an elegantly tailored set of pool-ready clothes, with a huge beaming grin on his face. “For you, pool boy!”

 

Sanada steps in front of Yukimura, bristling immediately. It had been strange enough that Yukimura actually wanted to go to a party thrown by Atobe. Stranger still that they seem to be at some sort of _castle_ that’s somehow still in Tokyo.

 

But Atobe wanting Yukimura to wear a _uniform_ , and _serve drinks_...well, that’s just unacceptable. 

 

He grabs Atobe by the collar, lifting him into the air. “What’s the meaning of this insult?” he thunders.

 

"Calm down, Sanada, it's fine," Yukimura says with a positively beatific smile, giving his vice-captain a pat on the arm. "I asked quite a bit of Atobe in the past, and I _did_ agree to return the favor…" _With a cold drink or two in your lap at this rate, you little shit_. 

 

Atobe laughs, handing over a tray of drinks. “Excellent! See, we’re all friends here! Yukimura, go on and change, and then you can start serving. Don’t worry, no one will bother you, this is a _fun_ party. Sanada, why don’t you just...get changed into your swimsuit?”

 

Sanada glares, then takes the tray from Yukimura. “Any favors you did were on my behalf. I’ll do the serving.”

 

“Nonsense, you’d glare at the guests.”

 

"Ah, I should warn you," Yukimura very solemnly says, "that even after all this time, my motor skills just aren't what they used to be. I can't be held liable for anything that is spilled or dropped, though I _deeply_ apologize in advance." 

 

Atobe’s face falls, and he says hurriedly, “Of course, I wouldn’t want to overburden your body! Please, forget about that, and simply….”

 

He grins. “Or not. You think I haven’t watched you play tennis? Your motor skills are just fine.”

 

Atobe shouldn't be this _fun_. Yukimura enjoys the challenge of looking terribly pathetic. "Haven't you ever wondered why we never go out to eat afterwards to even celebrate our winnings? I put everything I have into tennis, and afterwards, it's all I can do just to stand. Tell him how many times you've had to carry me back to the train station, Sanada." 

 

“Once,” Sanada says with a glare. “Let me do it for you or do it yourself, we don’t need to lie to the likes of him.”

 

“I’m detecting an insult.”

 

Yukimura punches Sanada in the shoulder. "We were having _fun_ , don't ruin it! I'm going to do it, anyway, it isn't a problem," he sniffs, and promptly yanks his shirt off and over his head. "Have a read first, won't you, Atobe? Sanada does all of this himself--"

 

“OI!” Sanada’s face heats up, to something approaching the temperature of the surface of the sun. “No one else is supposed to see that!”

 

Atobe’s eyebrows climb, and he walks slowly around Yukimura, appraising from all angles like a work of art. “Ahh...quite intriguing. Hmm, are the scratches supposed to be part of the design?”

 

“No! Stop looking!”

 

“Ooh, that’s quite a clever wordplay. And to put your name _there_ of all places—”

 

Sanada gives up, and tosses Yukimura into the pool.

 

Yukimura comes up sputtering and gasping a few seconds later, scowling up through the soaking wet curtain of his bangs as ink slowly dissipates into the water around him. " _Sanada!_ I wanted to keep those until later when I could write it all down permanently!" 

 

The splash apparently disturbs another guest, previously quietly hidden underneath an umbrella on the other side of the pool. "Is this commotion all really--"

 

Yukimura hauls himself out of the pool, and promptly shoves Sanada in instead for another, explosive splash.

 

"--…necessary," Tezuka grinds out when he and his book both end up soaked.

 

"I'll go get the drinks," Yukimura cheerfully announces, shaking himself off like a dog all over Atobe before gliding off.

 

“It was imperfect,” Sanada calls, kicking onto his back to float serenely in the pool. “I’ll write another one later. You can try harder not to breathe.”

 

Atobe wipes a damp piece of hair from his eyes with something that looks like distaste, but isn’t. “Thank you for the idea,” he says cheerfully to Sanada, and hefts Tezuka easily, tossing him into the pool to join Sanada’s swimming.

 

"I remember it well enough, I'll just write it down myself later," Yukimura tosses back as Tezuka hits the water with a solid _splat_ and sinks rather like a rock. "But it won't be as nice as yours."

 

"Kei-- _Atobe_ ," is the low, albeit sort of sputtering snarl Tezuka offers when he resurfaces, bobbing there sullenly. "You could have at _least_ let me take my glasses off. Now they're somewhere at the bottom of the pool--"

 

"Look, Sanada, aren't you happy that you get to see Tezuka again?" Yukimura brightly interrupts, holding out the tray for Atobe to select his drink. 

 

Sanada starts doing laps. Immediately.

 

“I’ll find your glasses, Kunimitsu!” Atobe says cheerfully. He takes a glass of champagne, downs it and sets the glass back on the tray, and leaps in, forming a perfect cannonball. “ _Prost_!”

 

Tezuka, fuming, slowly drifts his way over to a corner to tread water and look decidedly grumpy about it. 

 

"Drink?" Yukimura offers him with a smile, plopping down next to the pool.

 

Tezuka thinks Yukimura is taking his job far, _far_ too seriously. "If you broke them," he hisses after Atobe, "I'm going back to Germany _tonight_." 

 

Atobe executes a perfect dive, swimming down to the bottom of the pool and easily scooping the glasses off the bottom. “Of course not,” he says, beaming, and hands them over. “This pool is twelve feet deep at this end, the water pressure kept them perfectly safe and unscratched. Don’t look so angry, save that for the Germans, they like it. Shall I have our pool boy bring you a German beer?”

 

Yukimura kicks his dangling feet in the water harder, splashing Atobe in the face. "Whoops. Neural misfire." 

 

"Pass," Tezuka deadpans, shaking as much water off of them as he can before putting them back on. " _You_ can also refrain from getting drunk, no one wants to see that." 

 

“Nonsense, I’m entirely sure that I’m a charming drunk. Kabaji, am I a charming drunk?”

 

“Usu.” 

 

“There, you see?” Atobe asks, smile brilliant. He wipes water off of his face, and snaps his fingers at Yukimura. “Two more champagne flutes.” Then, for good measure, he dunks Tezuka underwater.

 

Yukimura can do without the finger-snapping, but he supposes he's done enough of that himself via text messaging over the past few months. A promise is a promise. He gets up with a roll of his eyes, thinking of how satisfying it will be to destroy Hyotei in the nationals. "Sanada, if you stopped doing laps for five seconds, you'd get to watch Tezuka be a worse swimmer than I am," he mildly tosses across the pool. Tezuka, for what it's worth, thrashes and elbows Atobe in the gut. 

 

“Pools are for laps,” Sanada says firmly. Especially when those pools have Atobe and Tezuka in them. However, he does pause at the end of his lap, looking back and snorting under his breath. “A Japanese man should know how to swim. You never know when disaster will strike.”

 

“Tsunami!” Atobe says gleefully, and dunks Tezuka again, ignoring the flailing elbows.

 

"You never mind when _I'm_ drowning," Yukimura idly points out.

 

"No more tsunamis-- _you're_ not a tsunami," Tezuka bites out when he finally manages to come up for air again, hair soaked and in his face as he glowers. "You didn't even give me a chance to put on sunscreen, so if I get burnt out here because of you--"

 

"What sort of tennis player gets sunburnt? Sanada just turns brown," Yukimura butts in with a grin, setting one glass of champagne on Tezuka's head and watching, impressed, as he manages to balance it (sourly). 

 

“I’ll rub aloe vera on you,” Atobe volunteers. “It’ll be great!” He delicately picks up the champagne and holds it to Tezuka’s lips. “This will help you keep from burning,” he lies extravagantly.

 

"You're a horrible liar," Tezuka flatly replies, pushing the glass away. "There's no way that's true."

 

"Oh, no, Atobe is definitely right. It's a common thing in France," Yukimura sweetly advises. 

 

Tezuka, still looking very, very skeptical, takes the champagne from Atobe with a sigh and sips slowly.

 

“It has to do with increasing the bloodflow to your surface capillaries,” Atobe says enthusiastically, “which allows for greater healing and cooling of the epidermis. Obviously. I did a course in pre-med school in England last summer.”

 

"Hmm, but wasn't that pre-law?" Yukimura idly recalls. 

 

“I did one of those as well. And pre-veterinary, and pre-theater, and one course in pre-business. It’s a very well-rounded school.”

 

"Ah, impressive. Small wonder your arm is on the mend, Tezuka, with such a capable friend keeping an eye on you."

 

Tezuka eyes him. Yukimura beams. 

 

Sanada hoists himself up from the pool, water running in rivulets down his front and back. He strips off his clothing down to his shorts, wringing them out before folding them and setting them by the side of the pool. He eyes Yukimura’s body, now only exhibiting the faintest traces of ink. No matter, he’ll write a better one later. There’s always a better poem. With inspiration like Yukimura, how could there not be?

 

Atobe doesn’t _like_ Sanada much, but he can’t deny that the man is sort of perfectly built.  His eyebrows raise, and he dunks Tezuka again, just for good measure (and so Tezuka doesn’t see him looking).

 

"Whoops." That's another splash of champagne that just _happens_ to tip off the side of the tray onto Atobe's head, the flute caught delicately between Yukimura's fingertips. "More neural spasms, can't be helped."

 

Tezuka comes up gasping (and oblivious). "Do you want me to drink or _drown?_ " 

 

“A little of both would be for the best,” Atobe says, tongue flicking to the side to catch an errant drop of champagne before he dunks his own head. “It’s a wonder that Sanada can draw on you at all, with all those _spasms_ of yours.”

 

“It isn’t easy,” Sanada says, stretching out his shoulders. “He’s squirmy.”

 

"It's better when I'm sleeping," Yukimura agrees without batting an eye, tilting his head back to watch Sanada himself. "He's sneaky about it."

 

Tezuka slowly and steadily starts paddling away. 

 

“Kunimitsu! Let me practice calligraphy on your body!”

 

"Absolutely not, your calligraphy is horrible!"

 

“That’s why I need to practice! Kabaji, get me a brush and ink!”

 

“Usu.”

 

"Practice on something else, I don't want your scribbling!" Tezuka snaps, hurriedly hauling himself out of the pool.

 

"Sanada could give you a few pointers, I bet," Yukimura tells Atobe. "He was always so helpful when we took calligraphy together." 

 

“Let me practice my German writing on you!” Atobe calls, ignoring Yukimura in favor of grabbing Tezuka by the shorts, yanking him back into the pool. “It will be as glorious as everything else I do!”

 

“You were a terrible student,” Sanada mutters. “You still are. You can learn more than one character, you know.”

 

Yukimura tilts his head, contemplative. "Unnecessary. You can be the one that is good at calligraphy." 

 

Tezuka doesn't shriek, but he certainly comes close as he topples back into the water with a flailing splash. "Your German isn't any better!" 

 

“My German is flawless!” Atobe doesn’t take the opportunity to yank down Tezuka’s shorts.

 

Well, yes, he does.

 

That's _definitely_ something between a squawk and a shriek as Tezuka writhes and kicks to free himself and yank his shorts back up before they can get much lower than his knees. "Why can't _you_ be the one that drowns?" It's surprisingly satisfying to dunk Atobe this time. 

 

Yukimura uses the empty drink tray as a shield against the splashing. Well, that's more life than he's ever seen Tezuka exhibit. Good for him. "Sa-na-da, you should help me put on some sunscreen so I don't start cooking out here."

 

Sanada nods shortly, grabbing a tube of sunscreen from one of the passing servants, squirting a liberal amount onto his hands before starting to rub them all over Yukimura’s back, shoulders, and chest. At least this is socially acceptable, not like any other way of being close to Yukimura in public. “It wouldn’t be bad if you were a little darker. Men shouldn’t worry about such things.”

 

“Don’t listen to him, Seiichi,” Atobe calls, shaking the water out of his hair with a laugh. “Real men can be exquisitely vain when they’re as lovely as my gorgeous self. You’ll do.”

 

"The great Atobe Keigo-sama has given me his approval, Sanada. I should be honored," Yukimura says, keeping an entirely straight face when when he slumps over underneath Sanada's hands.

 

"You turn as dark as an Okinawan when you sit on an Italian beach for a week," Tezuka flatly reminds Atobe.

 

“I should never let you two in the same room,” Sanada curses under his breath. “No good ever comes of it.”

 

“Only when I don’t have you to hold my umbrella properly!” Atobe protests, swimming up to clamber onto Tezuka’s back. “This is why you should come on European vacations with me more often. Last time I tanned, I couldn’t even see my lovely mole.”

 

Tezuka grunts tiredly, but hefts Atobe up onto his back all the same. "Why do you need to see it? You know where it is, you were born with it." 

 

"Just wait until we get to play Hyotei in the Nationals--maybe this time, we can go out to eat together afterwards," Yukimura suggests to Sanada with a bat of his eyes.

 

“I doubt it,” Sanada says, unsmiling. “I don’t get hungry after victory.”

 

“It’s not for _me_ to see,” Atobe says, happily draping himself onto Tezuka’s shoulders. “It’s for the good of mankind. Whole societies would collapse upon its disappearance. Oi, Yukimura, Sanada, I’ll call everything even if you have a chicken fight with us right now.”

 

"Deal." Yukimura grabs Sanada's arm to throw him bodily into the water again. 

 

Tezuka shuts his eyes against the splash, scowling when Yukimura follows suit and ugh, but glasses are _not_ meant for pools. "Champagne was better than this," he moodily declares.

 

A bit of competitive spirit fires through Sanada, and he hoists Yukimura up onto his shoulders, eyes narrowing. “Come on, then,” he growls, getting to a point shallow enough to stand. “And come at us with everything you have!”

 

Atobe blinks. “You be on top, Kunimitsu.”

 

"Ahh, and here I thought you'd want to challenge me directly, Atobe," Yukimura snidely prods, draping himself over Sanada's head.

 

"It's probably for the best that I don't entrust a challenge like this to you," Tezuka mutters, untangling himself from Atobe. "You let your guard down far too often." 

 

“Our glorious contest is yet to come,” Atobe says cheerfully, hoisting Tezuka up onto his shoulders. “A wise captain knows when to be a supporting player, responsible for a striking victory from below.” 

 

“Don’t slack off,” Sanada growls, and with a squeeze to Yukimura’s knee to make sure he’s ready, launches forward.

 

Yukimura is merciless, and probably a little too experienced in the game, besides. "We're the reigning champions," he cheerfully explains the first time he wrestles Tezuka flat onto his back in the water in about fifteen seconds, with Atobe toppling backwards after him with a foot to the forehead. "Back when Rikkaidai would go on training trips to Chiba, I mean. Kirihara used to throw a fit and go into Devil Mode, but that never helped much…" 

 

"A wise captain knows when to surrender, too, I think," Tezuka growls into Atobe's ear.

 

“Nonsense,” Atobe says, bobbing up determinedly. “A wise captain just needs to know when to change strategies!”

 

It’s probably not in the official rules of chicken to grab Tezuka and throw him like a missile. Probably.

 

Yukimura doesn't screech, courtesy of water muffling the sound when he hits the water with a rather impressive splash. "That's illegal!" he hisses, wheezing as he bobs up for air and kicks Tezuka away from him. "If you want to be a proper champion, play by the rules!"

 

“True champions can’t afford to lose even a single game!” Atobe calls, retrieving his missile and installing him once more in his proper position. “Time to gaze on my glory and despair!”

 

Sanada narrows his eyes, then hoists Yukimura up higher, raising him up on his arms. “We have the height advantage!”

 

"Time to crush them," Yukimura eagerly agrees.

 

"Is there some kind of point system to this? Like tennis?" Tezuka rather worriedly attempts before Yukimura tackles him far before his launch time and well, there go his glasses again and what little air was left in his lungs. 

 

“You’ll be avenged, Kunimitsu!” Atobe yells, launching himself towards the hybrid creature that is YukiSana.

 

Unfortunately for Atobe, Yukimura maintains their championship title, like in all things. It's for the best.


End file.
